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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

Gift 


From  the  Library  of 
Henry  Goldman,  Ph.D. 
1886-1972 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  witii  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


littp://www.arcli  ive.org/details/conquestofromeOOseraiala 


The  Conquest  of  Rome 


THE 

CONQUEST 
OF    ROME 


^^ 


By 
MATILDE   SERAO 

AUTHOR   OF 
"  THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE  " 
'  THE     BALLET    DANCER"    ETC. 


HARPER  6-  BROTHERS 
NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
PUBLISHERS      -      -      1902 


I*ubllshed  October,  1902 


StacK 
Annex 


PART  I 

CHAPTER    I 

The  train  stopped. 

'  Capua  !  Capua !'  three  or  four  voices  cried  monotonously 
into  the  night 

A  clanking  of  swords  dragged  on  the  ground  was  heard, 
and  some  lively  muttering  that  passed  between  a  Lombard  and 
a  Piedmontese.  It  came  from  a  group  of  subaltern  officers, 
who  were  ending  their  evening's  amusement  in  coming  to  see 
the  night  train  from  Naples  to  Rome  pass  through.  While  the 
conductor  chatted  respectfully  with  the  station-master,  who 
gave  him  a  commission  for  Caianello,  and  while  the  postman 
handed  up  a  mail-sack  full  of  letters  to  the  clerk  in  the  postal 
van,  the  officers,  talking  to  each  other  and  making  their  spurs 
ring  (from  habit),  looked  to  see  if  anyone  got  in  or  out  of  the 
train,  peeping  through  the  doors  which  were  open  for  the  sight 
of  a  fair  feminine  face  or  that  of  a  friend.  But  many  of  the 
doors  were  closed.  Blue  blinds  were  stretched  over  the  panes, 
through  which  glimmered  a  faint  lamplight,  as  if  coming  from 
a  place  where  lay  travellers  overpowered  by  sleep.  Bodies 
curled  up  in  a  dark  tangle  of  coats,  shawls,  and  sundry  cover- 
ings, were  dimly  discernible. 

X 


2  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

*  They  are  all  asleep,'  said  one  of  the  officers ;  •  let  us  go  to 
bed.' 

'  This  is  probably  a  newly-married  couple,*  suggested  another, 
reading  over  a  door  the  word  '  Reserved.'  And  since  the 
blind  was  not  drawn,  the  officer,  aflame  with  youthful  curiosity, 
jumped  on  the  step  and  flattened  his  face  against  the  window. 
But  he  came  down  at  once,  disappointed  and  shrugging  his 
shoulders. 

*  It  is  a  man,  alone,'  he  said — '  a  deputy,  no  doubt ;  he  is 
asleep,  too.' 

But  the  solitary  man  was  not  asleep.  He  was  stretched  out 
at  full  length  on  the  seat,  an  arm  under  his  neck,  and  one 
hand  in  his  hair  ;  the  other  hand  was  lost  in  the  bosom  of  his 
coat.  His  eyes  were  closed,  but  his  face  bore  not  the  soft 
expression  of  repose,  not  the  deep  peace  of  human  lineaments 
in  sleep.  Instead,  the  effort  of  thought  was  to  be  read  in 
those  contracted  features. 

When  the  train  had  passed  the  bridge  over  the  Volturno, 
and  ran  into  the  dark,  deserted,  open  country,  the  man  re- 
opened his  eyes,  and  tried  another  position  more  favourable  to 
repose.  But  the  monotonous,  everlasting  grinds  grind  of  the 
train  racked  his  head.  Now  and  then  a  farmhouse,  a  little 
villa,  a  rural  cottage,  stood  out  darkly  from  a  dark  background; 
a  thin  streak  of  light  would  ooze  out  through  a  crack;  a 
lantern  would  throw  a  glimmering,  dancing  circle  in  the  path 
of  the  speeding  train.  The  cold  prevented  him  from  sleeping. 
Accustomed  to  the  mild  Southern  nights,  and  not  in  the  habit 
of  travelling,  he  had  set  out  with  a  simple  light  overcoat  and 
neither  rug  nor  shawl ;  he  had  a  small  handbag,  and  other 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  3 

luggage  was  following  him  on  the  train.  Of  importance  to 
him  were  neither  clothes,  nor  maps,  nor  books,  nor  linen — 
nothing  but  that  little  gold  medal,  that  precious  amulet  sus- 
pended from  his  watch-chain.  From  the  day  it  was  his — it 
had  been  obtained  for  him  by  special  request  through  the 
quaestor  of  the  Chamber — his  fingers  were  perpetually  running 
over  it  with  light  touch,  as  if  in  a  mechanical  caress.  At  such 
times  as  he  was  alone  he  crushed  it  into  the  palm  of  his  hand 
so  hard  that  a  red  mark  would  remain  on  the  skin.  In  order 
to  have  the  compartment  reserved,  he  had  shown  this  to  the 
station-master,  lowering  his  eyes  and  compressing  his  lips  to 
fight  down  a  look  of  triumph  and  a  smile  of  complacency. 
And  since  the  beginning  of  the  journey  he  held  it  in  his  hand, 
as  though  afraid  to  lose  it,  so  infusing  it  with  the  warmth  of 
the  epiderm  it  was  scorching.  And  so  acute  was  the  sensation 
of  pleasure  derived  from  the  contact  of  that  possession  that  he 
faintly  felt  every  protuberance  and  every  hollow  in  the  face  of 
the  metal— ^//  under  his  fingers  the  number  and  the  words  : 

'XIV.  Legislature: 

On  the  reverse  were  a  Christian  name  and  a  surname,  in- 
dicative of  the  ownership : 

*  Francesco  Sangiorgio.' 

His  hands  were  hot,  yet  he  shook  with  the  cold.  He  rose 
and  went  to  the  door.  The  train  was  now  running  through 
open  country,  but  its  noise  was  subdued.  It  seemed  as  though 
the  wheels  were  anointed  with  oil  as  they  rolled  noiselessly 
along  the  rails,  accompanying  the  travellers'  sleep  without  dis- 


4  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

turbing  it.  The  luminous  windows  stamped  themselves  as 
they  fled  by  on  a  high,  black  embankment.  Not  a  shadow 
behind  the  panes.  The  great  house  of  slumbers  coursed 
through  the  night,  driven,  as  it  were,  by  an  iron,  fervent  will, 
whirling  away  with  it  those  wills  inert  in  repose. 

*  Let  us  try  to  sleep,'  thought  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio. 

Stretching  out  once  more,  he  attempted  to  do  so.  But  the 
name  of  Sparanise,  called  out  softly  two  or  three  times  at  a 
stoppage,  reminded  him  of  a  small  and  obscure  place  in  the 
Basilicata,  whence  he  hailed,  and  which,  together  with  twenty 
other  wretched  villages,  had  given  all  their  votes  to  make  him 
a  deputy.  The  little  spot,  three  or  four  hours  distant  from  an 
unknown  station  on  the  Eboli-Reggio  line,  seemed  very  far  oft 
to  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio — far  off  in  a  swampy  vale,  among 
the  noxious  mists  which  in  autumn  emanate  from  the  streams, 
whose  dried-up  beds  are  stony,  arid,  and  yellow  in  summer- 
time. On  the  way  to  the  railway-station  from  that  little  lonely 
place  in  the  dreary  tracts  of  the  Basilicata  he  had  passed  close 
to  the  cemetery — a  large,  square  piece  of  ground,  with  black 
crosses  standing  up,  and  two  tall,  graceful  pines.  There  lay, 
under  the  ground,  under  a  single  block  of  marble,  his  erst- 
while opponent,  the  old  deputy  who  had  always  been  re-elected 
because  of  patriotic  tradition,  and  whom  he  had  always  fought 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  an  ambitious  young  man  ignoring  the 
existence  of  obstacles.  Not  once  had  he  defeated  him,  had 
this  presumptuous  young  fellow,  who  was  born  too  late,  as  the 
other  said,  to  do  anything  for  his  country.  But  Death,  as  a 
considerate  ally,  had  secured  him  a  sweeping  and  easy  victory. 
His  triumph  was  an  act  of  homage  to  the  old,  departed  patriot. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  5 

But  as  he  had  passed  the  burial-ground  he  had  felt  in  his 
heart  neither  reverence  nor  envy  in  respect  to  the  tired  old 
soldier  who  had  gone  down  to  the  great,  serene  indolence  of  the 
tomb.  All  of  this  recurred  to  his  mind,  as  well  as  the  long, 
odious  ten  years  of  his  life  as  a  provincial  advocate,  with  the 
mean,  daily  task  common  in  the  courts,  and  rare  appearance 
at  assizes.  Perhaps  a  land  litigation  over  an  inheritance  of 
three  hundred  lire,  a  mere  spadeful  of  ground ;  a  whole 
miniature  world  of  sordid,  paltry  affairs,  of  peasants'  rascalities, 
of  complicated  lies  for  a  low  object,  in  which  the  client  would 
suspect  his  lawyer  and  try  to  cheat  him,  while  the  lawyer 
would  look  upon  the  client  as  an  unarmed  enemy.  Amid  such 
surroundings  the  young  advocate  had  felt  every  instinct  of 
ardour  die  in  his  soul ;  speech,  too,  had  died  in  his  throat. 
And  since  the  cause  he  must  defend  was  barren  and  trivial, 
and  the  men  he  must  address  listened  with  indifference,  he  at 
last  took  refuge  in  hastening  through  the  defence  in  a  few  dry 
words  ;  therefore  his  reputation  as  an  advocate  was  not  great. 
Now  he  was  entirely  bereft  of  the  capacity  to  regret  leaving  his 
home  and  his  old  parents,  who  at  seeing  him  go  had  wept  like 
all  old  persons  of  advanced  years  when  someone  departs 
through  that  great  selfishness  which  is  a  trait  of  old  age. 
Many  secret,  furious  tempests,  smothered  eruptions  that  could 
find  no  vent,  had  exhausted  the  well-springs  of  tenderness  in 
his  heart.  Now,  during  this  journey,  he  remembered  it  all 
quite  clearly,  but  without  emotion,  like  an  impartial  observer. 
He  shut  his  eyes  and  attempted  to  sleep,  but  could  not. 

In  the  train,  however,  everyone  else  appeared  to  be  wrapped 
in  deep  slumber.     Through  the  noise  and  the  increased  rock- 


6  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

ing  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio  seemed  to  hear  a  long,  even 
respiration;  he  seemed  almost  to  see  a  gigantic  chest  slowly 
rising  and  falling  in  the  happy,  mechanical  process  of  breathing. 
At  Cassino,  where  there  was  a  stop  of  five  minutes  at  one  in 
the  morning,  no  one  got  out.  The  waiter  in  the  cafd  was 
asleep  under  the  petroleum  lamp,  motionless,  his  arms  on  the 
marble  table  and  his  head  on  his  arms.  The  station  men, 
huddled  up  in  black  capes,  with  hoods  over  their  eyes  and 
lantern  in  hand,  went  by,  testing  the  journals,  which  gave  forth 
the  sound  of  a  metal  bell,  clear,  crystaUine  in  tone.  The  whistle 
of  the  engine,  as  the  train  started,  was  gently  shrill ;  the  loud, 
strident  voice  was  lowered  as  if  by  courtesy.  Resuming  the 
journey,  the  movement  of  the  train  became  a  soft  rocking, 
without  shocks,  without  grating,  without  unevenness,  a  rapid 
motion  as  on  velvet,  but  with  a  dull  rumble  like  the  snoring  of 
a  giant  in  the  heavy  plenitude  of  his  somnolence.  Francesco 
Sangiorgio  thought  of  all  those  people  who  were  travelling  with 
him :  people  in  sorrow  over  their  recent  parting,  or  glad  at 
Hearing  their  new  bourn ;  people  loving  without  hope,  loving 
tragically,  or  loving  happily ;  people  taken  up  with  work,  with 
business,  with  anxieties,  with  idleness ;  people  oppressed  by 
age,  by  illness,  by  youth,  by  felicity ;  people  who  knew  they 
were  journeying  towards  a  dramatic  destiny,  and  those  who 
were  going  that  way  unconsciously.  But  they  all,  within  half 
an  hour,  had  one  by  one  yielded  to  sleep,  in  full  forgetfulness 
of  body  and  soul.  The  gentle,  pacific,  healing  balm  of  rest 
had  come  to  still  the  unquiet  spirits,  had  soothed  them,  had 
spread  over  those  perturbed  mortals,  whether  too  happy  or  too 
unhappy,  and  they  were  all  at  ease  in  their  sleep.     Irritated 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  7 

nerves,  anger,  disdain,  desires,  sickness,  cowardice,  incurable 
grief — all  the  bestiality  and  grandeur  of  human  nature  travel- 
ling in  that  nocturnal  train  was  lost  in  the  great,  calm  embrace 
of  sleep.  The  train  was  hastening  to  their  fate — sad,  lucky,  or 
commonplace — those  dreaming  spirits  and  those  prostrate 
shapes  of  beings  who  were  tasting  the  profound  delight  of 
painless  annihilation,  leaving  it  to  a  power  outside  of  them- 
selves to  bear  them  along. 

*  But  why  cannot  I  sleep  also  ?'  thought  Francesco 
Sangiorgio. 

For  a  moment,  as  he  stood  in  his  solitary  compartment 
under  the  wavering  light  of  the  oil-lamp,  with  the  pitch-black 
earth  scudding  by  past  the  windows,  with  the  light  vapour  that 
clouded  the  glass,  with  the  cold  of  the  night  that  was  growing 
more  intense — for  a  moment  he  felt  alone,  irremediably  lost 
and  abandoned  in  the  feebleness  of  his  situation.  He  re- 
pented having  so  proudly  asked  for  a  reserved  compartment, 
wished  for  the  company  of  a  human  being,  of  anyone  whom- 
soever, of  anyone  of  his  kind,  even  the  very  humblest.  He 
was  dismayed  and  terrified  like  a  child,  imprisoned  in  that 
cage  out  of  which  there  was  no  escape,  drawn  along  by  a 
machine  which  he  was  powerless  to  stop  in  its  course.  Seized 
with  unreasoning  horror,  with  parched  throat  he  dropped  help- 
lessly on  the  seat,  from  which,  pricked  by  a  latent  reflection, 
he  suddenly  jumped  up ;  he  began  to  walk  nervously  back  and 
forth. 

'  It  is  Rome,  it  is  Rome,'  he  murmured. 

Yes,  it  was  Rome.  Those  four  letters,  round,  clear,  and 
resonant  as  the  bugles  of  a  marching  army,  now  rang  through 


8  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

his  imagination  with  the  persistency  of  a  fixed  idea.  The 
name  was  short  and  sweet,  Uke  one  of  those  flexible,  musical 
names  of  women  which  are  one  of  the  secrets  of  their  seduc- 
tions, and  he  twisted  it  about  in  his  mind  in  queer  patterns,  in 
contorted  curves.  He  was  unable,  he  did  not  know  how,  to 
shape  a  notion  of  what  those  four  letters,  cut  as  it  were  in 
granite,  actually  represented.  The  fact  that  it  was  the  name 
of  a  city,  of  a  large  agglomeration  of  houses  and  people,  eluded 
him.  He  did  not  know  what  Rome  was.  Through  want  of 
the  leisure  and  the  money  to  go  there,  he,  the  obscure  little 
advocate,  the  utterly  insignificant,  had  never  been  to  Rome. 
And  never  having  seen  it,  he  was  unable  to  form  any  but  an 
abstract  conception  of  it :  as  a  huge,  strange  vision,  as  a  great 
fluctuating  thing,  as  a  fine  thought,  as  an  ideal  apparition,  as  a 
vast  shape  with  shadowy  outlines.  Thus  all  his  thoughts  about 
Rome  were  grand,  but  indefinite  and  vague — wild  comparisons, 
fictions  that  developed  into  ideas,  a  tumult  of  fantasies,  a 
crowded  jumble  of  imaginations  and  conceits.  Beneath  the 
cold  mask  worn  by  the  pensive  son  of  the  South  burned  an 
active  imagination  habituated  to  selfish  and  solitary  medita- 
tions.    And  Rome  threw  that  mind  into  furious  commotion ! 

Oh,  he  felt  Rome — he  felt  it !  He  saw  it,  like  a  colossal 
human  shade,  stretching  out  immense  maternal  arms  to  clasp 
him  in  a  strenuous  embrace,  as  the  earth  did  Antaeus,  who  was 
thereby  rejuvenated.  He  seemed  to  hear,  through  the  night, 
a  woman's  voice  uttering  his  name  with  irresistible  tenderness, 
and  a  voluptuous  shudder  ran  over  him.  The  city  was 
expecting  him  like  a  well-beloved  son  far  from  home,  and 
magnetized  him  with  the  mother's  desire  for  her  child.     How 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  9 

often,'  from  the  little  overarched,  embowered  terrace  in  front 
of  his  house,  in  his  Basilicata,  had  he  stared  out  upon  the 
horizon  beyond  the  hill,  thinking  how,  over  there,  over  there 
under  the  bend  of  the  sky,  Rome  was  waiting  for  him  !  Like 
faithful,  reverent  lovers  who  have  an  adored  one  afar,  and  who 
are  consumed  with  the  desire  to  be  at  her  side,  he  sorrowfully 
thought  of  the  great  distance  separating  him  from  Rome ;  and 
as  in  cases  of  crossed  love,  men,  things,  and  events  interposed 
between  him  and  his  adored.  With  what  deep,  self-avowed 
hatred,  all  asurge  in  his  heart,  did  he  detest  those  who  put 
themselves  in  the  way  of  himself  and  the  city  that  was  calling 
him !  Like  lovers,  in  their  inmost  thoughts,  nothing  was 
present  to  him  but  the  rapturous  vision  of  the  being  he  loved 
and  was  loved  by :  all  those  black  shadows  eclipsing  the 
brightness  of  his  dream  enraged  him.  Bitterness  invaded  him  ; 
rancour,  anger,  scorn,  and  desires  accumulated  in  his  mind — 
as  with  lovers. 

With  Rome  ever  in  his  heart,  the  ten  years'  strife'  had 
changed  him.  A  secret  distrust  of  all  others  and  a  sovereign 
esteem  of  himself ;  continued  and  oft  harmful  introspection ; 
the  steady  assumption  of  outward  calm  while  his  heart  rioted 
within ;  a  profound  contempt  for  all  human  endeavours  foreign 
to  ambition ;  growing  experience  of  the  discrepancy  between 
wish  and  fulfilment ;  the  consequent  delusions,  kept  private, 
but  no  less  bitter  for  that ;  the  love  of  success,  success  only, 
nothing  else  than  success — all  this  had  been  born  in  his  inner- 
most soul.  Yet  sometimes,  in  the  dark  hours  of  despair,  he 
was  prostrated  with  unspeakable  debility ;  humiliation  drove 
out  pride ;  he  felt  himself  a  poor,  miserable,  futile  creature. 


lo  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

Like  lovers,  when  bad  fortune  overtakes  them,  he  felt  unworthy 
of  Rome.  Ah !  he  must  possess  himself  in  patience,  fortify 
himself  with  persistence,  temper  his  strength  in  adversity, 
purify  his  spirit  in  the  cleansing  fire,  like  a  saint  of  old,  in 
order  to  be  worthy  of  Rome.  Sacred  as  a  priestess,  mother, 
bride,  Rome  must  have  expiations  and  sacrifices,  must  have  a 
heart  unalloyed  and  a  will  of  iron  ! 

*  Ceprano  !  Ceprano  !  Fifteen  minutes'  stop  !'  was  being 
shouted  outside. 

The  Honourable  Sangiorgio  looked  about  him,  listened  as 
one  dazed.     He  had  been  raving. 

**♦■»■* 

First  a  bar  of  pallid  green  j  then  a  cold,  livid  lightness, 
creeping  slowly  upward  until  it  reached  the  top  of  the  heavens. 
In  that  chillness  of  expiring  night  opened  the  vast  Roman 
Campagna.  It  was  an  ample  plain,  whose  colour  was  as  yet 
indistinct,  but  which  here  and  there  undulated  like  the  dunes 
of  the  seashore.  This  Sangiorgio  observed  as  he  stood  erect 
by  the  window.  The  dense  shadows  as  yet  unconquered  by 
the  encroaching  whiteness  gave  the  Campagna  the  aspect  of 
a  desert.  Not  a  tree  in  sight.  Only,  from  time  to  time,  a 
tall  thick  hedge,  that  seemed  to  make  a  circular  bow  and  run 
away. 

The  stations  now  began  to  look  gray,  all  wet  still  with  the 
nocturnal  dews,  their  windows  barred  and  their  green  shutters 
closed,  these  taking  on  a  reddish  tint ;  the  mean  little 
oleanders,  with  their  branches  hanging  down  and  their 
blossoms  dropping  on  the  groimd,  looked  as  though  they 
were  weeping  ;  and  there  was  the  clock  with  large,  white  disc. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  ii 

splashed  with  moisture,  the  dark  hands  and  the  fat  body 
Hkening  it  to  a  two-legged  spider.  The  station-master, 
huddled  up  in  his  cloak,  with  a  scarf  wound  about  the  lower 
part  of  his  face,  marched  with  lowered  cape  up  and  down 
among  the  porters.  In  the  cold  morning  air  an  insidious, 
acrid  smell  of  damp  earth  pierced  to  the  brain.  A  large  place 
high  up  on  a  hill,  fortified  by  a  surrounding  wall  and  two 
towers,  stood  forth  gray  and  ancient,  with  a  medieval  air :  it 
was  Velletri. 

The  train  seemed  to  be  waking  up.  In  the  next  compart- 
ment there  was  a  scraping  on  the  floor,  and  two  people  were 
talking.  Out  of  a  first-class  window  protruded  the  head  of  a 
Spanish  priest,  with  hard,  shaven  cheeks  of  a  bluish  hue,  who 
was  lustily  pufifing  at  a  cigar.  And  as  the  white,  frosty  dawn 
irradiated  the  whole  sky,  the  nakedness  of  the  Campagna  ap- 
peared in  all  its  grandeur.  On  those  fields,  stretching  beyond 
sight  and  dimly  lighted,  grew  a  sparse,  short  grass  of  a  soft, 
marshy  green  ;  here  and  there  were  yellowish  stains,  blotched 
with  brown,  of  coarse,  rude  earth,  stony,  muddy,  uncultivable. 
It  was  an  imperial  desert  ungraced  by  any  tree,  undarkened 
by  any  shadow  of  man,  untraversed  by  any  flight  of  bird ;  it 
was  desolation,  enormous  and  solemn. 

In  the  contemplation  of  this  landscape,  which  resembled 
nothing  else  whatever,  Sangiorgio  was  seized  by  a  growing 
surprise  that  absorbed  all  his  individual  dreams.  He  stood 
looking  out,  mute  and  motionless,  from  the  corner  of  the 
coach  trembling  with  cold,  conscious  that  the  beating  of  his 
temples  was  abating.  Then  by  degrees  his  eyelids  became 
heavy,  a  sensation  of  lassitude  came  over  his  whole  body  ;  he 


12  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

felt  the  full  fatigue  of  his  wakeful  night.  He  would  have  liked 
to  stretch  himself  out  in  the  railway-carriage  with  a  comfortable 
ray  of  sunshine  streaming  in  through  an  open  window,  and  to 
get  an  hour's  sleep  before  reaching  Rome ;  he  was  envious  of 
the  people  who  had  spent  the  long  hours  of  the  night  in  getting 
renewed  strength  from  sleep. 

The  journey  was  now  seeming  intolerably  long  to  Sangiorgio, 
and  the  spectacle  of  the  Campagna  in  its  majestic  poverty  was 
oppressive  to  him.  Would  it  never  end  ?  Would  he  never 
be  in  Rome  ?  He  was  worn  out :  a  sensation  of  torpor  was 
spreading  from  his  neck  through  all  his  limbs,  his  mouth  was 
pasty  and  sour,  as  if  he  were  convalescing  from  an  illness,  and 
his  impatience  became  painful,  a  sort  of  small  torture ;  he 
began  to  pity  himself,  as  though  an  injustice  had  been  done 
him.  The  ordinary  passenger  trains  were  too  slow;  he  had 
done  wrong  to  come  in  this  one,  expecting  to  sleep  during  the 
night ;  this  last  hour  had  been  unendurable.  The  reality  of 
his  dreams  was  upon  him,  close  as  close  could  be,  and  the 
proximity  caused  him  a  shock  of  gladness.  He  felt  he  was 
hastening  towards  Rome,  like  a  lover  to  his  lady ;  he  strove  to 
be  calm,  inwardly  ashamed  of  himself.  But  the  last  twenty 
minutes  were  a  veritable  spasm.  With  his  head  out  of  the 
window,  receiving  the  damp  smoke  of  the  engine  in  his  face, 
without  a  further  look  at  the  Campagna,  without  a  glance  at 
the  fine  aqueducts  running  over  the  plain,  he  stared  into  the 
distance,  believing  and  fearing  that  at  every  moment  Rome 
would  appear,  and  was  depressed  by  a  vague  feeling  of  terror. 
The  Campagna  vanished  behind  him  as  if  it  were  drowning, 
going  down  with  the  moist  fields,  the  yellow  aqueducts,  and 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  13 

the  little  white  road-labourers'  houses.  The  locomotive  seemed 
to  be  increasing  its  speed,  and  from  time  to  time  gave  vent  to 
a  long,  long,  piercing  whistle  twice  and  thrice  repeated.  At 
nearly  all  the  windows  heads  were  peering  out. 

Where  was  Rome,  then  ?  It  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  So 
strong  was  his  trepidation  that  when  the  train  commenced  to 
slacken  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio  sank  down  on  the  seat ; 
his  heart  beat  under  his  throat  as  though  it  filled  up  his  whole 
chest.  As  he  stepped  down  upon  the  platform  from  the  foot- 
board, the  violent  throbbing  within  him  was  answered  by  as 
many  imaginary  hammer-like  blows  upon  the  head.  Yet  all 
that  the  railway  officials  said  was  '  Rome.'  But  he  was  seized 
with  a  slight  trembling  in  the  legs  ;  the  crowd  surrounded  him, 
pushed  him,  jostled  him,  without  paying  any  attention  to  him. 
He  was  between  two  currents  of  passengers,  arrived  simul- 
taneously by  two  trains,  from  Naples  and  Florence.  The 
Honourable  Sangiorgio  was  bewildered  among  so  many  people; 
he  leaned  against  the  wall,  his  handbag  at  his  feet,  and  his 
eyes  wandered  through  the  crowd  as  if  in  search  of  someone. 
The  station  was  still  quite  damp  and  rather  dark,  smelling 
horribly,  as  usual,  of  coal,  of  oil,  of  wet  steel,  and  was  full  of 
black  waggons  and  high  piles  of  accumulated  luggage.  All 
faces  were  tired,  sleepy,  ill-humoured,  expanding  into  a  yawn 
about  the  mouth  ;  their  sole  expression  was  one  of  indifference, 
not  hostile,  but  invincible. 

No  one  noticed  the  deputy,  who  had  unfastened  his  over- 
coat with  the  childish  motive  of  displaying  his  medal.  Twice 
he  called  to  a  porter,  who  went  off  without  listening  to  him. 
Instead,  the  employes  of  the  railroad  were  gathering  round 


14  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

a  group  of  gentlemen  in  tall  hats,  with  pale,  bureaucratic 
countenances,  who  had  on  black  tailcoats  and  white  cravats 
under  buttoned-up  overcoats,  their  collars  up,  and  their  faces 
sallow  from  short  sleep.  They  bore  the  aspect  of  persons  of 
position  accomplishing  a  high  social  formality.  When  from  a 
coach  in  the  Florence  train  a  tall,  slender,  fashionable  lady 
alighted  they  all  uncovered.  Then  a  thin  old  gentleman  got 
out.  The  group  closed  in ;  the  lean  gentleman  bowed,  while 
the  lady  smilingly  bent  her  head  over  a  proffered  bunch  of 
flowers.  From  the  now  open  coats  shone  an  array  of  white 
shirtfronts ;  smiles  flitted  over  the  visages,  which  had  quickly 
coloured.  On  some  of  the  watchchains  hung  four  or  five 
medals. 

'  His  Excellency !'  was  murmured  roundabout. 

Then  the  whole  group  began  to  move,  the  fine  lady  giving 
her  arm  to  the  thin  old  man,  the  deputies  and  other  high 
functionaries  following.  The  Honourable  Sangiorgio  stayed 
behind  mechanically,  having  remained  alone.  On  the  Piazza 
Margherita  he  saw  the  whole  procession  get  into  carriages 
between  the  rows  of  friends,  who  were  lined  up  bowing.  The 
lady  put  her  head  out  at  the  door  and  smiled.  He  saw  them 
all  drive  off"  after  her,  and  was  alone  in  the  great  square.  On 
the  ground  lay  moisture,  as  though  it  had  been  raining.  All 
the  windows  of  the  Albergo  Continentale  were  shut.  To  the 
left  lay  the  Corso  Margherita  still  building,  heaped  up  with 
stones,  beams,  and  rubbish.  The  hotel  omnibuses  turned, 
about  to  start.  Three  or  four  hackney-coaches  remained 
behind  through  the  laziness  of  the  coachmen,  who  sat  smoking 
and  waiting.     At  the  right  was  an  empty  tavern,  closed  up, 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  15 

and  on  a  high  stone  wall  a  screeching  advertisement  of  the 
Popolo  Romano.  Over  all  hung  a  thick,  soggy  atmosphere, 
an  enveloping  mist,  a  somewhat  disagreeable  odour.  The 
nauseous  sight  was  there  of  a  city  scarce  awake  in  the  limp 
heaviness  of  an  autumn  morning,  with  that  fever-tainted  breath 
which  seems  to  be  emitted  by  the  houses. 

The  Honourable   Francesco    Sangiorgio  was    exceedingly 
pale,  and  he  was  cold — in  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  II 

That  day  he  must  resist  and  not  go  to  Montecitorio.  The 
rain  had  ceased,  as  if  weary  of  a  week's  downpour;  a  sug- 
gestion of  dampness  still  floated  in  the  atmosphere,  the  streets 
were  muddy,  the  sky  was  all  white  with  clouds.  Pale-faced 
people  encased  in  overcoats,  with  trousers  turned  up  at  the 
ankle  and  with  countenances  distrustful  of  the  weather,  were 
walking  the  thoroughfares. 

From  a  window  of  the  Albergo  Milano  the  Honourable 
Sangiorgio  was  contemplating  the  Parliament  House,  painted 
light  yellow,  on  which  the  autumnal  rains  had  left  large  marks 
of  a  darker  colour,  and  he  was  trying  to  strengthen  himself  in 
his  resolve  not  to  go  in  there  that  day.  All  through  that  rainy 
week  he  had  stood  there — morning,  noon,  and  night.  When 
he  opened  his  window  of  a  morning,  through  the  sreaming 
veil  would  he  peer  at  the  large  pot-bellied  structure,  which 
appeared  to  like  standing  out  in  the  wet.  He  dressed 
mechanically,  his  eyes  fixed  in  its  direction,  while  he  made 
plans  to  go  about  Rome,  to  see  the  town,  to  look  for  furnished 
lodgings,  since  this  life  in  an  inn  could  not  last.  But  as  he 
opened  his  umbrella  in  the  doorway  of  the  hotel  a  sudden  fit 
of  indolence  overcame  him ;  the  street  which  sloped  to  the 
Piazza  Colonna  looked  slippery  and  dangerous ;  he  gave  his 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  17 

shoulders  a  shrug,  and  went  straightway  before  the  pursuing  rain 
into  the  Montecitorio.  He  left  again  only  for  the  purpose  of 
taking  breakfast  at  his  inn,  in  the  corner  ground-floor  room,  with 
glass  doors  and  mirrors ;  and  while  eating  a  veal  stew,  done  in 
Roman  style,  he  every  now  and  then  turned  to  see  who  entered 
the  Parliament  House.  He  ate  rapidly,  like  one  whose  brain 
has  no  consideration  for  the  benefit  of  his  stomach.  Everyone 
who  went  in  there  interested  him.  Now,  he  thought,  this 
must  be  Sella,  with  his  stout  figure,  rather  square,  as  though 
carved  with  a  hatchet,  and  his  shaggy  beard,  of  an  opaque 
black,  which  was  gradually  speckling.  Again,  it  looked  as  if 
this  must  be  Crispi,  with  his  large,  white  moustache  and  red 
face,  more  like  a  growling  old  general  than  a  fiery  debater. 
The  Honourable  Sangiorgio  finished  his  meal  hastily,  inwardly 
gnawed  with  impatience  to  get  a  close  view  of  these  statesmen, 
these  party  leaders,  and  then  once  more  made  for  Montecitorio. 
But  there  new  delusions  awaited  him. 

He  went  about  everywhere,  looking  for  Sella  and  Crispi. 
But  the  hall  was  void  and  chill  under  the  skylight,  with  the 
benches  still  in  their  summer  linen  covers,  with  the  dust- 
coloured  carpets  bordered  in  blue,  resembling  a  deep,  dark 
well,  with  a  light  pouring  in  from  on  high,  as  if  filtered  through 
a  net  of  water.  Abstractedly  he  ascended  the  five  steps 
leading  to  the  Speaker's  chair,  where  he  stopped  for  a  moment 
and  looked  at  the  benches,  which,  narrow  below,  widened  as 
they  rose  towards  the  galleries.  An  infantile  desire  came  over 
him  to  try  the  white  buttons  of  the  electric  bells ;  in  order  not 
to  yield,  he  walked  down  quickly  on  the  other  side,  and 
quitted  the  hall,  carrying  away  some  of  the  oppression  of  that 


i8  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

great  inverted  cone,  pale  and  melancholy  in  its  forsakenness. 
Neither  Sella  nor  Crispi  was  anywhere  to  be  found.     They 
were  not  in  the  dark  circular  corridor  of  columns,  which  lend 
it  the  semblance  of  a  porticoed  crypt,  nor  in  the  other  passage, 
long  and  straight,  where  the  deputies  have  their  lockers  for 
bills  and  reports.     Nor  did  he  discover  a  politician  in  the 
refreshment-room,   nor  in  the  great  room   called  the  Lost 
Footsteps,  nor   in    the  office   chambers  facing  the  square. 
Silence  and  solitude  everywhere;  no  one  but  a  few  ushers 
lolling  about  in  uniform,  without  their  badges,  and  bearing  the 
listless   air  of  people  with  nothing  to  do.     Now  and  then 
Sangiorgio  met  the  quaestor  of  the  chamber,  who  had  come  to 
exchange  with  the  other  quaestor,  a  patrician  who,  during 
October,  revelled  in  the  luxury  of  his  seigneurial  villa  on  Lago 
Maggiore ;  and  this  other  one,  a  Baron  from  the  Abruzzi,  with 
calm,  aristocratic  air,  with  a  flowing,  fair  beard,  with  the  mild, 
unsevere  propriety  of  a  gentleman  attentive  to  his  duties,  went 
about  vigilant  yet  apparently  unconcerned.      Whenever  the 
baronial  quaestor  met  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio,  he  gave  him 
a  little  nod  and  murmured  *  Honourable ' ;  and,  passing  on, 
he  said  nothing    more.      The    Honourable    Sangiorgio  felt 
embarrassed  and  shy  in  consequence  of  this  continued  polite- 
ness and  this  continued  reserve ;  he  would  have  preferred  to 
be  unsaluted,  like  a  stranger,  or  spoken  to,  like  a  colleague. 
This  correctness,  polite  though  cold,  disconcerted  Sangiorgio 
to  such  a  degree  that  after  a  week  of  this  repeated  bowing  and 
no  word  passed,  he  blushed  when  he  encountered  the  quaestor, 
as  though  caught  in  a  mistake.     Hereupon,  doubting  whether 
he  would  find  what  he  was  in  search  of,  he  took  refuge  in  the 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  19 

1 

reading-room,  on  the  large  oval  table  of  which  lay  scattered 
the  daily  newspapers.  There,  at  least,  he  found  a  pair  of 
deputies — one  a  Socialist  from  Romagna,  of  light  chestnut 
whiskers  and  mobile  eyes  behind  glasses,  writing  letter  after 
letter,  at  a  tiny  table — flaming  addresses,  perhaps ;  the  other, 
an  old  Parliamentarian,  with  white  beard  and  ruddy'counte- 
nance,  who  was  peacefully  asleep  in  an  armchair,  his  feet  on 
another  chair,  his  hands  in  his  lap,  and  a  newspaper  over- 
spreading his  body. 

Francesco  Sangiorgio,  succumbing  to  the  stillness  of  the 
place,  to  the  warm  air,  to  the  softness  of  the  great  dark-blue 
easy-chair,  leant  his  head  upon  one  of  his  hands,  though  still 
holding  up  the  number  of  the  Diritto  or  the  Opinione  he  was 
reading.  A  lethargy  stole  over  all  his  being,  which  seemed 
to  have  relaxed  in  the  warm  and  silent  atmosphere ;  but  in 
that  lethargy,  behind  the  hand  covering  his  eyes,  he  was  still 
alert.  If  the  Socialist  deputy  turned  over  a  page,  if  the  old 
man  made  a  spring  in  his  chair  creak,  Sangiorgio  started :  the 
fear  of  being  discovered  asleep  haunted  him — unlike  that  aged 
deputy,  who  was  not  ashamed  to  exhibit  his  worn-out,  useless 
senility  in  the  reading-room,  sleeping  soundly,  with  the  croak- 
ing respiration  of  a  catarrhal  old  man.  He  then  got  up,  and 
went  across  the  room  on  tiptoe. 

The  Socialist  deputy  raised  his  head,  and  scrutinized  San- 
giorgio with  his  cunning  eyes,  those  of  an  overrascally  apostle. 
Possibly  he  was  seeking  to  discern  the  stuff  of  a  disciple  in 
that  young  novice  of  a  deputy ;  but  the  cold  glance,  the  low 
forehead,  where  the  stiff  hairs  were  planted  as  on  a  brush, 
the  whole  energetic  physiognomy  of  Francesco  pointed  to  a 


20  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

character  already  formed,  unsusceptible  to  the  sway  of  influences 
— one  on  whom  social  mysticism  would  have  taken  no  hold. 
So  that  the  Socialist,  Lamarca,  bent  his  head  again  to  his 
writing. 

The  Honourable  Sangiorgio  climbed  to  the  third  floor,  to 
the  library.  In  the  bright  corridor,  which  has  its  own  windows 
beneath  the  skylight  of  the  legislatorial  hall,  two  or  three  clerks 
were  at  the  high  wooden  desks,  entering  in  large  books  the 
general  catalogue  of  the  works  kept  in  the  library ;  their 
occupation  was  continuous,  unceasing;  they  wrote  without 
stirring,  without  speaking.  A  short  deputy,  bald  and  red- 
nosed,  was  posted  in  front  of  a  desk  and  turning  over,  always 
turning  over,  the  leaves  of  one  of  those  large  books,  as  though 
hunting  for  some  undiscoverable  volume.  Very  small,  stand- 
ing on  a  footstool  so  as  to  reach  the  level  of  the  desk,  with  a 
pair  of  short-sighted  eyes  that  compelled  him  to  put  his  nose 
down  to  the  paper,  he  seemed  to  disappear  behind  the  volume, 
and  remained  in  concealment  like  a  bookmark.  In  the  series 
of  rooms,  all  full  of  books,  Sangiorgio  found  no  one ;  the 
tables,  covered  with  papers,  with  pens,  with  inkstands,  with 
pencils,  for  the  studious,  were  deserted. 

In  a  corner  of  one  of  the  rooms,  before  a  half-filled  shelf, 
standing  on  a  ladder,  the  learned  librarian-deputy,  the  perse- 
vering Dantophile  of  the  black  eyebrows,  looking  as  though 
they  were  put  on  with  two  heavy  strokes  of  charcoal,  was 
rummaging  furiously  among  the  books,  with  that  passion  for 
his  library  which  he  had  derived  from  the  chaos  he  had  found 
it  in.  Nevertheless,  he  turned  round,  the  honourable  librarianr 
deputy,  at  Sangiorgio's  cautious  footstep;  catching  sight  of 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  21 

him,  he  turned  and  scrutinized  him  with  a  pair  of  blackest, 
most  vivacious  eyes,  all  pregnant  with  the  literary  researches 
he  had  been  making. 

Francesco  Sangiorgio,  embarrassed  anew,  as  if  he  were  an 
intruder  admonished  by  the  silence  and  the  librarian's  staring 
gaze,  walked  more  softly,  and  in  the  last  room  of  the  library 
set  to  reading  the  titles  of  the  new  books,  one  by  one,  dizzy  at 
all  the  lore  relating  to  government,  economics,  and  politics 
collected  on  those  shelves,  and  for  pretence  he  took  down  a 
volume  of  Buckle's  '  History  of  Civilization ' — the  second — 
and  began  to  read. 

Like  lovers  unable  to  tire  of  the  lady  of  their  heart, 
enchained  by  the  sweet  fascination,  seeking  the  smallest 
pretext  for  remaining  by  her,  so  also  did  he  linger  in  the 
corridors,  looking  at  the  maps  on  the  walls ;  in  the  hall, 
studying  the  allotment  of  the  seats;  in  the  reading-room, 
perusing  the  newspapers ;  in  the  library,  reading  some  books 
he  cared  little  or  nothing  about.  With  the  natural  rusticity  of 
his  mind  and  his  provincial  shyness,  he  feared,  in  his  heart, 
lest  that  quaestor  who  bowed  to  him  so  properly,  but  without 
ever  speaking  to  him ;  lest  those  ushers  who  so  indifferently 
saw  him  pass  by ;  lest  that  librarian,  so  much  in  love  with  his 
library,  might  judge  him  for  what  he  really  was  :  a  provincial, 
a  novice,  stunned  with  his  first  political  success,  who  was 
afraid  to  take  his  comfort  in  the  Parliamentary  armchairs,  and 
who  could  not  tear  himself  away  from  the  place.  It  seemed 
to  him,  as  it  does  to  lovers,  that  everyone  must  read  his  sole 
passion  in  his  face. 

*  1e  *  'k  * 


22  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

That  day  he  would  not  set  foot  there,  at  Montecitorio ;  he 
would  not  on  any  account  think  of  the  Parliamentary  world ; 
he  must  see  Rome,  must  find  a  lodging.  He  looked  out  of 
the  window,  intending  to  start  after  breakfast.  He  had  been 
awakened  early  by  a  hubbub  of  voices  and  laughter  in  the 
adjoining  room.  A  sonorous,  virile,  resounding  voice,  with  a 
very  pronounced  Neapolitan  accent,  and  speaking  in  pure 
Neapolitan  dialect,  broken  by  rude  laughter,  was  loudly 
arguing  and  declaiming.  Two  visitors  came,  who  were  then 
followed  by  two  others ;  then  there  was  a  string  of  friends,  of 
petitioners,  who  implored,  boasted  their  claims,  repeated  their 
requests  over  and  over  again  in  Neapolitan  dialect  and  with  an 
obstinate  rhetorical  verbosity,  to  all  of  which  the  Honourable 
Bulgaro,  Deputy  for  Chiaia,  the  second  Naples  district,  replied 
with  vigorous  objections.  He  could  be  heard  through  the 
dividing  doors,  and  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio  involuntarily 
listened. 

No,  he  could  not,  he  really  could  not,  said  the  Honourable 
Bulgaro.  Was  he,  perchance,  the  Eternal  Father,  that  he 
could  grant  everything  to  everybody  ?  Let  them  leave  him  in 
peace,  once  and  for  all !  And  he  walked  up  and  down  the 
room  with  the  cumbrous  stride  of  a  large  man,  grown  loutish 
in  civil  life  after  losing  the  agility  of  the  handsome  young 
officer,  who,  in  his  palmy  days,  had  won  many  a  fair  creature's 
heart.  But  those  who  came  with  a  purpose  insisted,  begged, 
explained  their  family  history,  related  their  troubles,  ever- 
lastingly repeating  it  all,  so  that  the  Honourable  Bulgaro,  with 
his  easy  Neapolitan  good-nature,  yielded  after  being  worn  out, 
and  said: 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  23 

'  Very  well !  Very  well !  We'll  see  if  something  cannot  be 
done !' 

They  went  away  as  well  pleased  as  though  they  already  had 
their  desires,  and  the  Honourable  Bulgaro,  left  alone  for  a 
minute,  puffed  and  swore  : 

*  Lord  !  Lord  1  what  jabbering !' 

The  Honourable  Sangiorgio  was  ashamed  of  having  overheard 
so  much,  and  went  down  to  breakfast  in  a  very  pensive  mood. 
He  armed  himself  with  courage  to  resist  the  seductions  of 
Montecitorio.  He  reflected  that  perhaps  many  deputies  had 
arrived,  since  but  three  weeks  were  wanting  before  the  opening 
of  the  forty-fourth  legislature.  And  he  was  already  giving  way 
to  curiosity,  as  a  pretext  for  his  weakness,  when  a  carriage, 
which  chanced  to  be  slowly  passing  by  on  the  flooded  paving- 
stones,  obstructed  his  view  of  the  main  porch.  With  a  decided 
gesture  he  hailed  the  carriage  and  jumped  in. 

'  Where  may  it  be  your  pleasure  to  go  ?'  asked  the  coachman 
of  his  absent-minded  patron,  who  had  given  him  no  directions. 

'To — St.  Peter's — yes,  take  me  to  St.  Peter's!'  answered 
Francesco  Sangiorgio. 

The  drive  was  long.  The  three  consecutive  streets — 
Fontanella  di  Borghese,  Monte  Brianzo,  Tordinona — were 
choked  with  vehicles  and  foot-passengers ;  they  were  narrow 
and  tortuous,  with  those  dingy  stationery  and  second-hand 
iron  shops,  all  dirty  and  dusty,  with  those  narrow  front-doors, 
with  those  squalid  blind  alleys.  At  Castel  Sant'  Angelo  there 
was  breathing-space,  but  along  the  turbid  and  almost  stagnant 
yellow  stream  was  a  succession  of  brown  hovels,  of  gray  tene- 
ments, with  thousands  of  tiny  windows,  with  damp  stains  of 


24  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

green  on  them,  as  though  a  loathsome  disease  had  dis- 
coloured them,  with  filthy  mildewed  foundations  disclosed  by 
low-water :  that  angle  of  the  river,  near  Trastevere,  was  vile. 
In  the  Via  Borgo  the  deep  ecclesiastical  quiet  began,  with  the 
silent,  grayish  palaces,  with  the  shops  for  sacred  articles, 
statuettes,  images,  oleographs,  rosaries,  crucifixes,  where  the 
pompous  legend  stood  forth  :  '  Objects  of  Art.' 

In  the  great  deserted  square  before  the  church  two  fountains 
which  were  playing  looked  like  white  plumes,  and  the  obelisk 
in  the  middle  like  a  walking-stick,  and  round  about  the  ground 
was  lightly  bedewed  with  spray  from  the  fountains  standing 
there  in  the  silence  of  an  untenanted  place.  The  carriage 
turned  the  obelisk,  and  stopped  at  the  grand  stairway.  The 
Honourable  Sangiorgio  surveyed  the  front  of  St.  Peter's,  and 
it  seemed  to  him  very  small  and  squat. 

'  Will  you  go  into  the  church  ?'  asked  the  coachman. 

'Yes,'  said  the  deputy,  shaking  himself  out  of  his  fit  of 
abstraction. 

When  he  arrived  at  the  threshold,  he  veered  round  and  took 
a  mechanical  glance  at  the  square.  He  had  read  that  at  that 
distance  a  man  looked  like  an  ant;  but  nobody  appeared,  and 
the  huge,  empty  space,  besprent  with  water  under  the  gray 
sky,  to  his  mind  resembled  the  vast,  naked  Campagna.  Inside 
the  church  he  experienced  no  mysterious  emotions  :  he  was  an 
indifferent  as  to  religion,  never  speaking  of  it,  discussing  the 
Pope  like  an  important  political  question,  leaving  religious 
faith  and  practice  to  women.  The  architecture  of  St.  Peter's 
did  not  stir  him.  As  he  advanced  he  perceived  that  the  church 
grew  in  size,   but  to  him  that  deceptive  harmony  seemed 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  25 

purposeless,  reprehensible.  A  few  Germans  were  circulating, 
looking  about  with  rather  severe  mien,  as  if  their  rigid 
Lutheranism  disdained  such  Christian  pomp.  Not  a  chair, 
not  a  bench,  not  a  priest,  not  a  sacristan — the  familiar  spirit 
who  extinguished  the  candles  and  replenished  the  holy  water 
at  the  great  pillars.  The  brown  confessionals,  on  which  might 
be  read  in  gilt  characters,  *Pro  Hispanica  Lingua,'  'Pro  Gallica 
Lingua,'  'Pro  Germanica  Lingua,'  were  empty.  There  was 
nothing  to  kneel  on  but  the  steps  of  the  pulpit  or  of  the  main 
altar ;  else  there  was  the  cold  pavement. 

Francesco  Sangiorgio  had  no  understanding  for  the  monu- 
ments of  the  Popes :  he  examined  them  without  appreciating 
either  their  beauty  or  their  ugliness.  His  notions  of  art  were 
vague  and  narrow.  Canova's,  with  the  sleeping  lions,  he 
thought  mediocre ;  Rovere's  Pope,  all  in  bronze,  he  considered 
superb  and  handsome ;  Bernini's,  with  the  figure  of  Death  in 
gold,  the  drapery  of  red,  veined  marble,  the  Pope  of  white 
marble — this  gave  him  no  sensations,  but  was  simply  queer. 
He  did  not  know  whether  the  paintings  over  the  altars  were  by 
great  artists  or  not,  whether  they  were  copies  or  originals.  He 
wandered  about,  killing  time,  as  though  performing  a  duty, 
abstracted  and  thinking  of  something  else,  not  at  all  interested 
in  that  gigantic  pile  of  stones,  freezing  and  forsaken,  where  only 
a  few  shadows  flitted.  Finally,  on  the  way  out,  the  monument 
to  the  two  last  Stuarts  impressed  him  as  a  poor  thing. 

*  Drive  to  the  Coliseum,'  he  said  resolutely  to  the  coachman, 
throwing  himself  back  into  the  cushions. 

The  coachman^  in  order  to  prolong  the  drive,  since  he  was 
engaged  by  the  hour,  and  so  as  to  avoid  the  streets  by  which 


26  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

they  had  come,  and  which  were  ugly  enough,  went  through 
the  old,  dark  streets  of  the  Borgo  Santo  Spirit©  and  the 
Govemo  Vecchio,  where  the  real  Roman  population  lives,'loath 
to  abandon  the  ancient  quarters  and  the  small  houses  crawling 
with  beetles.  The  coachman  made  his  horse  go  at  the  slow 
gait  of  a  tired  animal,  having  cleverly  secured  a  stranger  with 
no  ideas.  At  the  Foro  Traiano  he  still  further  slackened  the 
horse's  pace,  and  Sangiorgio  pretended  to  admire  that  broad 
expanse  below  the  level  of  the  ground,  where  the  mutilated 
pillars  serve  for  tree-trunks,  that  great  burial-place  for  dead  cats, 
that  great  dwelling-place  for  stray  cats,  whom  the  charitable 
servants  of  the  Via  Magnanapoli  and  Macel  de'  Corvi  bring  the 
remains  of  their  dinner.  He  could  not  see  the  Campidoglio, 
nor  the  Arch  of  Septimius  Severus,  nor  the  Grecostasi,  nor  the 
Temple  of  Peace,  nor  the  whole  great  Roman  Forum ;  because 
of  the  perpetual  demolitions  he  could  not  pass  by  there,  nor 
could  he  go  on  the  Palatine  Hill.  This  the  coachman  ex- 
plained as  he  followed  the  Via  Tor  de'  Conti. 

And  soon  the  carriage  was  under  the  Coliseum,  without  the 
visitor  having  seen  it  from  afar  on  the  road  which  he  had  to 
take  thither.  The  Honourable  Sangiorgio  felt  obliged  to 
alight,  and  went  in  under  the  arched  entrance,  sinking  into  the 
muddy  soil.  A  large  pool  of  rain-water,  bordered  by  verdant 
vegetation,  lay  near  the  doorway  of  the  Flavian  Amphitheatre. 
In  the  hollows  of  the  white  stones  scattered  here  and  there,  in 
the  fluting  of  the  stairs,  and  even  in  the  hand  of  a  broken 
statue,  there  was  rain-water.  Francesco,  marvelling  at  the 
immensity  of  the  walls,  looked  for  points  of  identification; 
where,  then,  was  the  imperial  box,  the  gallery  for  the  vestals, 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  27 

and  that  for  the  priests  ?  He  stood  in  the  centre,  but  did  not 
realize  the  nature  of  that  subterraneous  structure.  Yes,  the 
Coliseum  was  grand,  but  the  dirty  light  of  a  rainy  day 
partially  dimmed  its  majesty,  and  showed  its  decay  and  all 
the  wear  and  tear  of  time.  The  country  outside  was  green 
with  the  rich  growth  of  moist  fields ;  but  there  was  not  the 
song  of  a  bird,  not  the  voice  of  a  beast,  not  the  voice  of  a 
man. 

Under  an  archway  a  municipal  guard  appeared;  he  was 
leisurely  and  apathetic,  taking  no  notice  of  the  visitor.  The 
Honourable  Sangiorgio  conscientiously  went  the  round  of  the 
circular  corridor,  which  was  rather  dark.  He  thought  perhaps 
this  Coliseum  might  be  finer  at  night,  under  the  moonlight, 
which  gives  ruins  a  romantic  aspect,  making  them  look  larger 
and  more  mysterious.  He  had  done  wrong  to  come  in  the 
daytime  to  get  his  first  impression.  The  Coliseum,  he  thought, 
was  a  great,  useless  thing,  built  by  vain,  foolish  people.  A 
gentleman  and  a  lady — she  being  young  and  frail,  he  tall  and 
robust — were  also  walking  through  the  circular  corridor,  where 
the  air  is  soft  and  cool,  as  in  a  cellar ;  they  were  walking 
slowly,  without  looking  at  one  another,  speaking  in  under- 
tones, their  fingers  interlocked.  She  cast  down  her  eyes  at 
meeting  Sangiorgio's,  and  the  man  gave  him  a  surprised, 
resentful  glance. 

*  Let  us  imagine  what  it  looks  like  at  night,  with  the  moon,' 
said  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio  to  himself.  '  The  old  Romans 
built  the  Coliseum  for  modern  lovers  to  walk  in.'  And  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  in  expression  of  his  secret  contempt  for 
love — the  scorn  of  the  provincial  who  has  lacked  time,  oppor- 


28  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

tunity,  and  inclination  to  love ;  the  scorn  of  a  man  profoundly 
absorbed  by  another  desire,  which  was  not  love. 

'  Shall  we  go  to  the  Church  of  San  Giovanni  ?'  inquired  the 
coachman,  assuming  the  initiative. 

'  Very  well,  let  us  go.' 

And  he  conveyed  him  first  to  San  Giovanni  and  then  to 
Santa  Maria  Maggiore,  depositing  him  conscientiously  at  the 
door.  But  these  churches  were  smaller  than  St.  Peter's. 
They  failed  to  astonish  him  by  their  size  j  they  were,  perhaps, 
more  inviting  to  worship,  but  his  soul  was  closed  to  the  sweet 
mysteries  of  religious  belief;  he  walked  to  and  fro  aimlessly, 
like  a  somnambulist.  Upon  his  coming  out  the  coachman, 
without  asking  him  anything,  with  a  short  trot  of  his  nag,  took 
him  by  the  way  traversed  before,  passing  under  the  Titus  Arch, 
to  the  stupendous  Baths  of  Caracalla.  The  deputy,  San- 
giorgio,  did  not  stop  to  inspect  the  photographs  at  the  door ; 
he  entered  quickly,  as  if  seized  with  impatience. 

The  walls  stood  up  enormously  high,  covered  with  tufts  of 
grass  and  prickly  weeds,  and  had  the  solidity  that  is  bestowed 
by  centuries.  In  the  midst  of  the  huge  compartments  the  floor- 
ing had  given  way,  becoming  concave,  like  a  basin,  and  filling 
with  a  puddle  of  inky  water.  At  the  end  of  the  hall  for  games 
and  recreation  was  a  sitting  statue,  headless,  the  statue  of  a 
woman  decently  attired — Hygeia,  probably.  Against  the  sad 
November  sky  was  outlined  a  lofty  reach  of  ragged  wall,  a  hideous 
toothed  cliff,  that  seemed  to  mount  up  and  up  into  the  region 
of  the  clouds.  Down  below  in  the  plain  stood  a  round  temple, 
tiny  and  graceful — to  Venus,  perhaps. 

The  Honourable  Sangiorgio  was  ill  at  ease  in  that  wide 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  29 

edifice  ;  felt  a  chill  in  his  marrow ;  was  conscious  of  his  small- 
ness  and  insignificance.  And  anything  that  mortified  or 
humiliated  him  made  him  suffer. 

•  No !'  he  said  decisively  to  the  coachman,  who  offered  to 
show  him  the  old  Appian  Way,  'we  will  go  back  to  town  !' 

As  they  returned  to  Rome  he  began  to  shiver.  The  mild 
autumn  day  was  drawing  to  an  end,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
actually  clothed  in  all  its  penetrating  dampness,  all  the  dirty 
white  splotches,  all  the  thin  layers  of  mud.  And  he  also 
seemed  to  bear  within  him  all  the  gloom,  all  the  solitude,  all 
the  melancholy,  of  those  ruins,  large  or  small,  mean  or  splendid, 
all  the  void,  the  insensibility  of  those  useless  churches,  of 
those  great  stone  saints,  that  were  hieratic  figures  without 
entrails,  of  those  cold  altars  of  precious  marble. 

What  did  all  those  memories  of  the  past  matter  to  him,  all 
those  tiresome  records  ?  Who  cared  aught  for  the  past  ?  He 
belonged  to  the  present,  was  a  modern  of  moderns,  in  love 
with  his  age,  in  love  with  the  life  he  was  to  lead  and  not  with 
the  days  gone  by,  fit  for  the  daily  strife,  fit  for  the  stiffest 
endeavours  to  conquer  the  future.  He  was  not  a  weakling 
who  repined;  he  did  not  believe  that  things  had  once  gone 
better ;  he  loved  his  own  day,  and  saw  that  it  was  great — 
richer  in  thought,  in  activity,  in  individuality.  But  in  the 
twilight  that  darkened  the  cloud-covered  heavens  he  felt 
belittled,  tainted  by  the  dangerous,  enervating  contemplation 
of  the  past ;  a  heavy  oppression  sank  down  upon  his  breast, 
upon  his  soul :  he  must  have  taken  a  fever  in  the  bogs  of  the 
Coliseum  and  the  Baths,  in  the  tepid  humidity  of  the  churches. 

The  gas-jets  on  the  Piazza  Sciarra,  however,  brought  him  to. 


30  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

A  newsboy  was  calling  out  the  Fanfulla  and  the  Bersagliere 
for  sale.  People  were  standing  in  groups  on  the  pavement.  The 
bustle  of  life  once  more  stimulated  his  blood.  A  man  talking 
in  front  of  Ronzi  and  Singer's  stated  loudly  that  the  opening 
of  Parliament  was  fixed  for  November  20.  The  Fagiano  and 
Colonne  eating-houses,  under  the  Veian  Portico,  were  ablaze 
with  light.  Through  the  window  of  the  Colonne  the  Honour- 
able Sangiorgio  thought  to  descry  the  Honourable  Zanardelli, 
whose  portrait  he  knew.  He  went  in  there  instead  of  going 
on  to  the  Albergo  Milano,  and  took  a  seat  at  a  table  alone, 
near  the  honourable  member  from  Brescia.  And  while  he  ate 
Sangiorgio  examined  that  elongated,  disjointed  frame,  that 
little  nervous  head,  so  full  of  indomitable  will-power,  those 
convulsive  gestures,  that  essentially  Southern  pugnacity.  The 
deputy  from  Brescia  was  dining  with  three  other  guests.  In 
another  corner  dined  more  deputies,  and  the  waiters  busied 
themselves  about  those  familiar  customers,  forgetting  the 
soUtary,  unknown  Sangiorgio.  In  that  surcharged  atmosphere 
he  felt  himself  revive ;  he  breathed  anew  ;  he  took  courage  for 
the  conflict.  And  when  at  an  advanced  hour  he  returned  to 
the  Piazza  Montecitorio,  in  ths  presence  of  the  Parliament 
House — mighty  in  the  gloom — he  felt  shaken  to  the  very 
foundations  of  his  being.     His  heart  was  over  there. 


CHAPTER  III 

In  the  glove-shop  of  the  Via  di  Pietra  there  was  a  great  bustle. 
The  handsome  proprietress,  fair  and  tall,  a  cheerful  Milanese, 
and  two  lean  girls  with  weary  eyes,  did  nothing  but  perpetually 
turn  round  with  outstretched  arms  to  take  down  glove-boxes 
from  the  shelves.  They  bowed  their  heads  while  they  felt  for 
the  required  pair  with  long,  nimble  fingers.  All  customers 
who  came  in  wearing  a  top-coat,  under  which  it  could  be 
assumed  was  a  dress-coat,  whose  collars  were  upturned,  and  who 
had  shiny  silk  hats,  asked  for  light  gloves.  A  fine  gentleman 
in  a  high  hat,  with  a  red  and  white  ribbon  at  his  throat — a 
commander,  in  fact — asked  specifically  for  the  colour  he 
wanted,  selecting  pigeon  gray.  A  lady  from  the  provinces, 
attired  in  wine-coloured  satin  and  a  white  hood,  in  which  she 
was  suffocating,  was  a  long  time  choosing  a  pair  of  gloves, 
arguing  and  trying  the  patience  of  three  or  four  customers 
waiting  in  a  corner.  She  desired  a  tight  glove  that  would  not 
wrinkle,  and  then  she  complained  of  buttons  loosely  sewn  on 
with  a  single  thread,  which  came  off  immediately.  When  told 
the  price,  six  lire,  she  became  scandalized,  put  on  an  injured 
air,  said  that  the  material  was  very  poor  at  such  a  high  price, 
and  went  away  gloveless,  with  pursed-up  lips,  carrying  in  her 
hand  her  invitation-card  to  one  of  the  galleries  in  the  Parliament. 


32  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

An  honourable,  a  stout,  dark  young  Southerner,  with  black 
moustache,  was  relating  to  a  credulous  constituent  how  at  the 
last  moment  he  had  discovered  he  had  no  gloves,  how  those 
landlords  threw  away  everything  with  the  rubbish.  And  the 
poor  constituent  listened  with  a  faint,  confiding  smile,  having 
no  gloves,  not  he,  and  probably  no  money  to  buy  any. 

In  the  meantime  another  lady  had  come  in  who  had  stepped 
from  a  carriage.  She  was  tall,  with  a  fine  face  all  painted 
crimson  and  white,  with  ruby  lips,  eyebrows  so  black  that  they 
looked  blue,  and  exceedingly  yellow  hair.  She  was  dressed 
entirely  in  white  satin,  had  on  a  hat  bedecked  with  white 
feathers,  and  carried  a  parasol  bordered  with  cream  lace.  She 
asked  for  a  pair  of  eighteen -buttoned  black  gloves;  her 
bracelets  tinkled  as  they  slid  up  and  down  her  bare  arms ;  she 
exhaled  a  penetrating  odour  of  white  rose. 

A  small  deputy,  short  and  fat,  almost  round,  with  a  fringe 
of  black  beard  and  a  pair  of  sparkling,  tiny,  bead-like  eyes, 
scanned  her  up  and  down.  He  was  pouring  out  his  grievances 
to  a  colleague,  a  tall,  handsome  man,  with  flaxen  moustache 
and  the  important  demeanour  of  a  ceremonious  blockhead. 
He,  a  democratic  deputy  of  the  Extreme  Left,  always  drew  one 
of  the  lots  conferring  the  duty  of  receiving  the  King  and  the 
Queen  at  the  door  of  the  Parliament.  Yes,  he,  a  democratic 
deputy,  was  obliged  to  bow  and  give  his  arm  to  a  lady  of  the 
Court  whom  he  did  not  know,  who  did  not  speak  to  one,  to 
whom  one  had  nothing  to  say. 

'  I  like  fashionable  women,'  murmured  the  other,  with  his 
stupid,  self-satisfied  expression. 

'  May  be.     But  when  one  considers  that  their  dresses  are 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  33 

made  with  the  money  of  one's  constituents '  retorted  the 

fat  republican  honourable. 

And  then  they  left,  eyeing  the  handsome  painted  female  as 
she  got  into  her  carriage.  Between  the  indentations  of  her 
lace  wrap  was  visible  a  pink  card  ',  she  was  to  sit  in  another 
gallery,  was  she,  in  a  distinguished  gallery. 

*  The  revenge  of  the  proletariat,'  remarked  the  democratic 
deputy  quite  complacently. 

By  this  time  people  were  treading  on  one  another's  heels  in 
the  glove-shop.  There  were  faces  of  Government  clerks,  with 
freshly-shaven  beard,  white  necktie  ironed  at  home,  pepper- 
and-salt  overcoat,  or  cannon-smoke-coloured,  or  coal-dust- 
coloured,  under  which  the  black  broadcloth  trousers  shone  in 
perfect  preservation  ;  there  were  sallow  faces  of  high  officials, 
to  which  the  green  ribbon  of  St.  Maurice  and  St.  Lazarus 
imparted  a  still  more  cadaverous  hue ;  there  were  all  sorts  of 
antiquated  beaver  hats,  rejuvenated  for  the  nonce  by  a  hot  iron. 

The  fair,  smiling  proprietress  never  flagged,  never  lost  her 
head,  bowed  amiably  to  everyone,  always  answered  with  the 
politeness  of  a  well-bred  Northern  saleswoman.  She  had 
disposed  of  the  whole  supply  of  white  cravats,  and  when  the 
Honourable  Di  Santamarta  arrived,  a  fair-haired  Sicilian  of 
Mephistophelian  mien,  and  asked  for  a  necktie,  she  expressed 
profound  regrets,  the  Marquis  being  an  all-the-year-round 
customer.  That  very  moment  the  last  of  those  white  neckties 
had  been  sold,  but  Salvi,  in  the  Piazza  di  Sciarra  yonder, 
he  surely  would  have  some.  The  blond  Marquis  listened 
apathetically,  with  his  feminine  blue  eyes  turned  down  and 
his  sceptical  smile. 

3 


34  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

•Is  the  Signora  Marchesa  in  Rome?  Of  course  she  is 
going  to  the  opening  of  Parliament  ?' 

*  Yes,  I  believe  so,'  answered  the  Honourable  Marquis.  '  I 
think  she  will  be  going  with  her  sister.  I  left  my  house  in 
a  hurry  to  buy  this  necktie.  What  a  nuisance  these  perform- 
ances are  !'  He  went  out  wearily  as  if  he  had  undergone  some 
great  fatigue,  another  just  as  onerous  remaining.  *  At  Salvi's, 
you  say  ?'  he  asked  from  the  door  in  a  drooping  voice. 

'  Salvi,  in  the  Piazza  Sciarra.' 

For  a  moment  the  shop  was  empty.  The  two  girls  took  a 
respite  standing  up ;  their  faces  were  very  pale.  Before  them 
on  the  counter  lay  open  boxes  and  piles  of  gloves.  Even  the 
proprietress  was  seized  with  momentary  lassitude,  and  also 
stood  still,  her  hands  leaning  on  the  counter.  She  was 
reminded  of  one  of  those  hot  carnival  nights,  one  of  the  last, 
when  there  are  three  fashionable  balls  in  Rome,  four  public 
balls,  and  eight  or  nine  receptions,  and  when  there  would  be 
a  concourse  of  young  gallants  in  her  shop,  and  milliners, 
servants,  ladies'  maids,  desperate  husbands,  fretsome  lovers. 
But  now  a  family  from  Salerno  came  in,  father,  mother,  and 
daughter — the  father  employed  in  the  Interior  Department — 
and  wanted  a  pair  of  gloves  for  the  girl.  They  explained  at 
once  that  they  were  bound  for  the  Chamber,  that  they  had 
their  tickets  from  several  people.  One  was  from  Baron 
Nicotera,  their  deputy — the  Baron,  as  the  mother  simply  called 
him ;  another  had  been  given  them  by  Filippo  Leale — the 
Honourable  Leale,  the  gentleman  with  the  black  beard,  who 
Jiad  been  Secretary-General ;  the  third  ticket  had  been  pro- 
cured by  an  usher  of  Parliament  from  their  own  district,  a 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  35 

good  fellow  with  five  medals.  Oh,  it  was  not  so  easy  to  get 
cards  !  They  were  in  very  great  demand.  A  lady  of  their 
acquaintance,  who  was  the  aunt  of  a  deputy,  had  been  unable 
to  get  one.  They  were  rather  disturbed  on  account  of  the 
different  colours  of  their  cards,  which  meant  three  separate 
galleries ;  but — well,  they  would  not  lose  their  way  in  the 
Parliament. 

'I  think  you  will  have  to  go  in  by  three  different  ways,' 
placidly  observed  the  proprietress  in  the  midst  of  this  flood  of 
words,  while  she  was  battling  to  fit  a  glove  on  the  girl's  fat,  red 
hand.     The  father  of  the  family  looked  at  his  wife  in  dismay. 

The  shop  was  filling  with  fidgety,  nervous  people,  who 
could  not  wait,  who  stamped  with  impatience,  who  tore  the 
gloves  in  trying  them  on  too  hurriedly.  Before  the  counter 
was  a  double  row  of  customers,  treading  on  each  other's  heels ; 
on  the  counter  was  a  tangle  of  open  boxes,  a  confused 
agglomeration  of  miscellaneous  gloves ;  and  there  was  an  all- 
pervading  odour  of  skin — that  pungent,  essentially  feminine 
odour  which  intoxicates. 

*  *  *  *  ♦ 

The  gay  autumn  sun,  on  that  most  merry  morning,  sparkled 
on  the  housetops  of  the  Via  della  Colonna,  on  the  roofs  of  the 
Via  degli  Orfanelli,  and  threw  its  beams  athwart  the  Piazza 
Colonna.  The  Antonine  Column  looked  black  and  worn  in 
the  surrounding  shaft  of  bright  light,  and  stood  out  all  wrinkled 
and  hunchbacked  against  the  red  surface  of  the  Piombino 
Palace.  In  the  limpid  air  was  a  scintillation  as  of  gilded 
atoms.  Not  a  breath  of  wind  stirred  ;  streets  and  houses  were 
steeped  in  a  silent  delight,  in  the  joyful  atmosphere  of  sun- 

3—2 


36  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

shine.  Tricoloured  banners  were  hung  out ;  at  the  corner  of 
the  Palazzo  Chigi,  on  the  balcony  of  the  Austrian  Embassy, 
the  two  flags  fraternally  entwined.  In  the  brilliant  light,  under 
which  everything  seemed  to  vibrate  in  the  utmost  precision 
and  clearness  of  outline,  the  three  vivid  colours  gave  out  a 
sharp,  glad  note.  On  the  terrace  of  the  Circolo  Nazionale 
was  a  fluttering  of  parasols — red,  white,  blue — glistening  in 
the  sun.  From  both  sides  of  the  Corso,  from  the  Via  Caccia- 
bove,  from  the  Via  della  Missione,  from  the  Via  Bergamaschi, 
came  a  continual  rush  of  people,  in  crowds  and  in  groups,  a 
flashing  of  black  silk  hats,  a  coruscation  of  gold  epaulets,  an 
undulating  wave  of  white  and  pink  feathers  on  the  women's 
hats. 

By  half-past  nine  the  military  cordon  had  stopped  all  issues, 
and,  ascending  towards  Montecitorio,  rounded  the  obelisk,  and 
stretched  to  the  UflSci  del  Vicario.  At  every  break  in  the  line 
there  was  perpetual  haranguing  between  the  officers  and  the 
people  who  tried  to  pass  without  tickets,  each  one  of  them 
looking  for  a  deputy.  Ah,  there  he  was,  under  the  Parlia- 
ment porch !  Now  for  making  signs  to  him  !  But,  heavens  ! 
he  would  not  turn  the  right  way  !  Behind  the  string  of  troops 
the  multitudes  of  spectators  formed  a  deep,  dense  hedge, 
iridescent  in  the  morning  sunlight ;  here  and  there  a  red  gown, 
or  a  white  one,  made  the  effect  of  a  blur.  Between  this  line 
and  the  porch  intervened  a  large  empty  space,  strewn  with 
gravel.  Now  and  then  some  gentleman  with  overcoat  un- 
buttoned, and  some  lady  in  fashionable  morning  attire,  made 
their  way  across  on  foot,  walking  slowly  so  as  to  be  seen  better, 
and  while  conversing  together  enjoying  the  envy  of  those  who 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  37 

had  no  cards.     Near  the  four  steps  in  the  porch  a  group  of 
three  ladies  halted  for  a  moment.     One,  habited   in  black, 
sparkled  all  over  in  the  sunlight  by  reason  of  the  lustrous 
cuirass  of  black  beads  imprisoning  the  upper  part  of  her  body  ; 
the  other,  dressed  in  a  delicate  gray,  had  a  white  veil  over  her 
face  ',   the  third  was  dressed  in  the  iron  blue,  called  electric^ 
then  in  fashion  ;  and  the  three  had  all  met  in  the  doorway,  and 
bowed  to  each  other,  showered  compliments  on  one  another, 
laughed,   swayed  to  and  fro  on   their  tinsel -slippered  feet, 
conscious  of  being  stared  at  by  the  crowd,  of  being  admired 
and  envied.     After  prolonging  this  delightful   moment,  they 
disappeared,  one  by  one,  into  Montecitorio.     As  the  hour 
drew  near,  the  crowd  increased  on  every  side,  and,  like  the 
waves  of  the  sea,  ebbed  from  and  flowed  against  the  wall  ot 
the  military  cordon.     All  the  windows  of  the  Albergo  Milano 
were  crammed  with  heads;  from  the  attics  peered  out  the 
curly  heads  of  men-servants  and  the  white  caps  of  maid- 
servants ;  the  large  bay-windows  of  the  Pensione  dell'  Unione, 
the  little  squat  windows  of  the  Fanfulla,  the  windows  of  the 
Wedekind  Palace,  all  had  three  or  four  rows  of  spectators, 
closely  crowded  ;  and  in  all  the  adjacent  thoroughfares,  in  the 
Orfanelli  square,  the  Guglia  Lane,  the  UfBci  del  Vicario,  the 
two  branches  of  the  Via  della  Missione,  there  was  a  host  of 
people  on   balconies  and  doorsteps,   and  at  windows.      At 
Aragno's,  the  liquor-seller's,  women  had  climbed  upon  the 
chairs  and  tables. 

Then,  as  the  hour  of  the  ceremonial  opening  drew  near,  a  file 
of  people — those  invited — crossed  the  open  space.  Occasion- 
ally  a   row   of  medals   gleamed   under   a   buttonhole.     The 


38  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

carriages  left  the  Corso  at  a  trot,  without  noise  from  the 
wheels,  turned  the  obelisk  in  a  graceful  curve,  and  halted  at 
the  porch.  They  were  carriages  belonging  to  Cabinet 
Ministers,  to  senators,  to  members  of  the  corps  diplomatique  ; 
old  men  got  out  of  them,  supported  by  a  servant  or  a  secre- 
tary, a  white  or  red  uniform  was  visible  for  an  instant,  and 
then  disappeared  beneath  the  porch. 

On  the  small  platform  two  journalists  in  dress-coats  and  soft 
hats  were  jotting  down  the  names  of  the  notabilities  who 
passed  by.  One  was  short,  with  a  pointed,  light  beard,  mottled 
with  gray;  he  wore  gold  eyeglasses  and  an  impassive  look. 
The  other,  too,  was  short,  but  of  sturdy  figure  and  deadly 
white  complexion,  with  a  schoolboy  moustache  and  a  smile 
denoting  a  fondness  for  satire.  They  were  the  managers  of 
the  two  largest  Roman  newspapers,  who  were  contributing  in 
person  to  the  columns  of  those  important  journals,  and  between 
themselves  were  amicably  jesting  about  the  queer  specimens 
who  passed. 

The  sun  spread  over  the  corner  of  the  Pensione  dell* 
Unione,  thus  beginning  the  invasion  of  the  Montecitorio 
square,  and  to  this  gradual  encroachment  corresponded  a 
movement  of  the  crowd,  as  if  a  feeling  of  contentment  were 
stealing  over  them ;  here  and  there  the  smooth,  round  head  of 
a  parasol  was  raised.  The  procession  of  the  ticket-holders 
continued  across  the  open  space,  and  they  were  now  beginning 
to  grow  uneasy  and  impatient,  and  slightly  excited,  thinking 
they  were  too  late  to  secure  good  places.  The  crowds  in  the 
streets,  the  alleys,  the  balconies,  the  windows,  seemed  at 
moments  to  have  been  suddenly  stricken  lifeless,  as  if  petrified 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  39 

by  macgic,  as  if  a  huge,  invisible  photographic  machine  were 
photographing  them ;  and  one  might  have  observed  blank 
faces  with  staring  eyes,  children  whom  their  nurses  held  by  the 
collar,  or  a  dozen  people  who  had  scaled  a  hackney-coach. 
Then  the  spell  seemed  to  loosen ;  the  crowds  again  showed 
some  of  the  restlessness  of  people  moving  about  and  gaining 
no  ground — a  motion  resembling  the  expansion  and  contraction 
of  the  rings  of  a  worm.  A  little  boy  had  climbed  upon  the 
pedestal  of  the  obelisk,  where,  clinging  to  the  great  stone 
pillar,  he  amused  himself  with  gymnastic  feats. 

At  length  the  sun  reached  the  line  of  soldiers,  falling 
obliquely  upon  them.  First  the  white  gaiters  were  illumined, 
then  the  blue  capotes,  then  the  black  leather  hats,  and  finally  a 
bright  streak  ran  along  the  barrels  of  the  rifles.  And  from  the 
distance  came  a  low,  brief  rumble,  the  echo  of  a  cannonade, 
upon  which  there  passed  from  one  to  another  of  the  whole  mass 
of  spectators,  from  balcony  to  window,  from  street  to  alley,  a 
flutter  and  a  sigh  of  immense  relief: 

'The  procession!  The  Procession!  THE  PROCES- 
SION !'  exclaimed  the  crowd  in  an  undertone,  which  grew  to 
a  clamour. 

In  the  hall,  too,  the  rumble  of  the  cannon  was  heard ;  for 
an  instant  absolute  silence  reigned  there.  Then  a  murmuring 
of  voices  began  and  grew  loud,  fans  were  once  more  set  in 
motion,  the  insidious,  penetrating  female  chatter,  the  footsteps 
of  persons  turning  about  in  the  aisles  in  vain  search  of  seats, 
the  rustle  of  silk  gowns,  fused  and  were  confused.  The  hall 
was  metamorphosed.  Round  about  it  the  sections  had  been 
raised  to  the  level  of  the  galleries  by  means  of  scaffolding,  a 


40  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

large  supplementary  gallery  being  thus  created,  containing  four 
rows  of  spectators  close  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  deputies  on 
the  last  bench.  On  the  two  side-stairways,  which  the  ushers 
know  so  well  from  a  hundred  ascents  and  descents  every  day 
of  every  session,  were  two  tightly-packed  files  of  people,  two 
thick,  solid  stripes  extending  from  the  top  of  the  galleries 
down  to  the  bottom,  the  ladies  sitting  on  the  steps,  the  men 
who  had  gallantly  surrendered  their  places  leaning  against  the 
wall. 

All  around  the  galleries  were  all  filled  to  their  utmost 
capacity.  The  press  gallery,  too — the  best  for  hearing  the 
speeches — had  been  given  up  to  the  public,  the  reporters  being 
distributed  over  the  best  seats  below.  The  ladies'  gallery  was 
quite  full,  but  this  seemed  a  piece  of  irony,  and  everyone 
laughed  at  there  being  a  special  little  gallery  for  ladies  when 
they  had  already  invaded  everything,  were  present  everywhere, 
at  the  elbows  of  the  deputies  and  almost  on  the  floor  of  the 
House,  all  aglow  with  their  imperishable  women's  curiosity. 
The  officers'  gallery  was  an  effulgence  of  epaulettes  and  gold- 
braid;  in  the  Speaker's  gallery  there  was  much  craning  of 
necks  and  great  lamentation  from  disappointed  and  deluded 
people :  both  were  situated  over  the  royal  canopy,  which 
would  conceal  the  King  from  view.  And  the  two  large  galleries 
at  the  comers — the  diplomats'  and  the  senators' — were  empty, 
deeply  shaded  by  the  dark-blue  velvet  draping  their  wooden 
walls. 

In  the  hemicycle  the  committee  benches  had  disappeared ; 
they  had  run  parallel  to  the  sections  on  the  arc  of  a  circle. 
Gone,  too,  was  the  long  Ministerial  bench,  called  by  the  most 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  41 

virulent  among  the  Opposition  the  prisoners'  bench.  The 
small  desk  in  the  middle,  where  the  stenographers  wrote,  and 
relieved  one  another  at  five-minute  intervals,  had  been  taken 
away.  The  whole  Speaker's  box  had  been  removed.  In  its 
place  a  broad  platform,  accessible  by  four  steps  and  covered 
with  red  carpeting,  had  been  erected,  and  over  it  had  been 
stretched  an  enormous  red  velvet  canopy,  fringed  with  gold 
and  divided  into  three  compartments.  All  this  red  looked 
very  sombre  under  the  expansive  dome,  and  in  the  claustral 
dimness  the  gold  on  the  royal  armchair  shone  forth  like  a  holy 
shrine.  Somewhat  lower  down,  outside  the  canopy,  to  the  right 
and  left,  were  two  other  armchairs  for  members  of  the  Royal 
Family.  The  members  were  scattered  about,  standing  on  the 
steps  of  the  sections  and  talking  with  the  women.  Some  had 
gone  up  to  the  last  row  and  turned  their  backs  to  the  House, 
gossiping  glibly  with  the  women  in  the  large  wooden  gallery,  bow- 
ing to  an  acquaintance,  smiling  at  a  friend,  familiarly  nodding 
to  a  constituent  for  whom  they  had  procured  a  ticket.  Airy, 
frivolous  conversations  were  spun  between  the  women,  who 
were  surprised  at  everything  and  laughed  at  everything,  and 
the  deputies  who  tried  to  help  them  at  it. 

A  dark,  well-dressed  lady,  wearing  a  hat  cross-laced  with 
gold,  was  having  the  deputies  pointed  out  to  her  by  the 
Honourable  Rosolino  Scalia,  a  grave  Sicilian  in  correctly  cut 
clothes,  presenting  the  appearance  of  an  officer  in  civilian 
garb,  his  buttonhole  containing  a  minute  daisy,  and  at  the 
leisurely  explanations  of  Scalia  the  lady  bent  forward,  peered 
through  her  eyeglasses,  and  pointed  her  lips  to  a  malicious 
smile.     Ah,  indeed,  was  that  the  Honourable  Cavalieri,  the 


42  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

Calabrian,  the  member  who  was  so  ingenuously  Calabrian  ? 
A  patriot,  did  he  say?  Yes,  she  understood  that,  and 
admitted  he  was  famous,  but  he  wore  too  many  medals ! 
That  lean,  fair  man,  with  the  gray  eyes  and  the  mop  of  hair 
brushed  back,  was  that  the  Honourable  Dalma,  the  literary 
deputy  who  talked  about  Ophelia  in  the  House  and  about  real 
estate  assessment  to  the  women  ?  Why  did  they  not  make 
the  Honourable  Dalma  a  Minister  ?  Did  many  of  them  want 
to  be  Minister?  And  was  this  really  a  serious  thing  with 
them,  this  passion  for  politics?  So  the  Honourable  Scalia, 
a  trifle  disgusted  with  her  empty  rattle,  tried  to  prove  to  the 
lady  that,  although  politics  might  seem  a  jest  to  those  not 
taking  them  seriously,  they  nevertheless  were  a  noble  passion. 
But  she  shook  her  head,  unconvinced,  laughing  again  with  her 
pretty,  frivolous  laugh,  and  the  Honourable  Scalia's  face 
showed  his  increasing  abstraction ;  he  sought  relief  from  her 
cackle  in  looking  about  the  hall,  politely  pretending  to  be 
amused. 

The  public  was  not  impatient  of  the  delay.  The  women 
were  glad  to  be  seated,  to  see  and  to  be  seen ;  they  would 
have  stayed  there  till  evening,  playing  their  fans,  tossing  their 
heads  to  make  the  jewels  in  their  hats  sparkle,  levelling  their 
opera-glasses.  The  men  were  inwardly  congratulating  them- 
selves on  the  early  toilet  which  had  been  necessary,  and  which 
lent  them  an  air  of  gravity  and  elegance ;  some  pretended  it 
was  all  a  great  bother.  But  invitations  to  lunch  were  being 
passed  about,  and  meetings  were  being  arranged  at  caf^s  to 
discuss  the  ceremony. 

The  crowd  which  peopled  the  hall  and  the  galleries  and  the 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  43 

corridors,  and  every  inch  of  space  where  a  man  might  stand, 
was  touched  with  nervous  excitement,  with  a  dash  of  intoxica- 
tion. Many  of  these  individuals  had  never  visited  Parliament, 
and  feigned  to  take  no  interest  in  their  surroundings,  though 
in  reality  the  atmosphere  went  to  their  heads.  Meanwhile 
there  was  nothing  gay  about  the  Chamber  itself,  which  kept  its 
wonted  appearance.  The  skylight  windows  had  been  washed, 
to  be  sure,  but  the  light  of  that  fair  morning  filtered  through 
sadly,  thinned  like  the  cold,  whitish,  damp  light  that  passes 
through  an  aquarium,  and  the  wooden-coloured  walls,  with 
their  streaks  of  dark  blue,  were  well  adapted  to  reflect  no 
brightness  whatever,  to  quench  any  cheerful  gleam.  That 
ugly  colour  absorbed  and  annulled  all  the  others,  condemned 
all  the  colours  to  a  pale  monotone.  Such  was  the  effect,  from 
any  gallery,  of  the  optical  phenomenon  which  is  the  first  dis- 
illusionment of  whoever  visits  the  Italian  Parliament :  all  faces 
were  the  same  colour,  melted  into  one  another ;  no  individuals 
could  be  distinguished ;  it  was  a  monotonous  whole,  without 
design,  without  variety,  from  which  one  turned  away  dis- 
appointed. 

But  this  place,  which  equalized  so  many  faces,  so  many 
sorts  and  conditions,  so  many  kinds  of  clothes,  this  levelling 
to  which  the  most  rebellious  must  submit,  this  universal 
imprint  which  no  one  who  came  into  the  hall  might  escape — 
this  produced  a  tremendous  result.  The  hall  seemed  to  be  a 
huge  sanctuary  which  swallowed  up  the  individual,  a  holy 
precinct  that  subdued  mind,  will,  and  character,  and  where  to 
stand  up  and  be  one  the  possession  was  needed  of  a  profound, 
burning,  mystic  faith,  or  of  the  sacrilegious  audacity  that  will 


44  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

overturn  an  altar.  And  the  great  royal  canopy,  all  dark  red, 
with  the  rigid,  straight  folds  in  the  velvet,  with  the  heavy  gold 
fringe,  and  the  golden  eagle  gathering  up  the  folds  under  its 
claws,  with  the  spacious  armchair  in  the  mysterious  shadow, 
had  an  ecclesiastical  aspect  like  a  tabernacle — a  shrine  where 
an  almighty  power  was  abiding. 

Of  a  sudden  all  the  deputies  were  in  their  places  standing 
up,  and  a  deep  silence  fell  on  the  galleries,  while  outside  the 
ringing  bugles  of  the  infantry  sounded  a  flourish.  Then  a 
long  round  of  applause  burst  forth — a  dull,  persistent  applause 
from  gloved  hands.  The  ladies,  who  had  risen,  were  applauding 
too,  leaning  on  the  shoulders  of  the  deputies  in  order  to  see 
better.  Standing  in  the  diplomatic  gallery  and  surrounded 
by  her  Ladies-in-Waiting,  the  Queen  bowed  in  every  direction, 
and  the  pearly  whiteness  of  her  face  eclipsed  the  wooden 
background.  She  looked  fresh  and  young  and  all  serene 
under  the  brim  of  her  yellow  straw  hat,  adorned  with  a  straw- 
berry-coloured plume.  And  when  the  acclaim  seemed  at  an 
end,  and  the  Queen  sat  down  rather  above  her  ladies,  the 
whole  assembly  was  carried  oflf  by  a  wave  of  admiration  for 
that  poetic  figure,  and  new  applause,  universal  and  deafening, 
again  greeted  the  Queen.  Excitement  reigned  everywhere. 
On  the  right  aisle  there  were  ladies  distracted  because  they 
were  under  the  diplomatic  gallery  and  could  not  see  the 
Queen.  Those  in  the  Speaker's  gallery  were  happy;  they 
could  not  see  the  King  very  well,  to  be  sure,  but  they  were 
within  two  paces  of  Her  Majesty.  To  some  of  the  spectators 
on  the  left  aisle  half  of  the  performance  was  lost — the  whole 
corps  diplomatique  in   full  uniform  in  the  senators'  gallery, 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  45 

with  the  wives  of  the  Ambassadors  and  of  the  Italian  Cabinet 
Ministers.  From  the  central,  the  press,  public,  oflScers',  and 
Government  clerks'  galleries,  though  far  off,  everything  could 
be  seen.  There  was  a  perpetual  aiming  of  opera-glasses.  The 
crowd,  seized  with  nervousness,  swayed  and  bent  to  right  and 
left.  Dialogues  between  reporters  were  overheard :  Where 
was  the  German  Ambassador?  Ah,  there  he  was,  with  his 
good-humoured  face,  his  white  moustache,  and  his  soft  eyes  ! 
That  lady  dressed  in  violet,  with  the  large  black  eyes,  behind 
Donna  Vittoria  Colonna,  who  could  she  be  ?  Donna  Lavinia 
Taverna,  a  Piombino.  And  all  the  women  were  in  feverish 
agitation,  names  were  whispered,  scraps  of  comment  on  the 
gowns  flew  to  and  fro,  whoever  was  most  in  evidence  tried  to 
be  recognised  by  the  Ministers'  wives,  by  the  Ambassadresses, 
by  the  Ladies-in-Waiting.  An  increasing  murmur  of  questions 
and  answers  and  subdued  discussions  rose  in  the  air  of  the 
hall  like  the  buzzing  of  a  million  flies. 

The  King  entered  unexpectedly  without  the  royal  anthem 
being  intoned.  He  appeared  at  the  right-hand  door  in  the 
midst  of  his  household,  of  the  Ministers,  and  of  the  ten 
deputies  who  had  received  him,  and  in  three  strides  he  was 
under  the  canopy.  Two  or  three  times  he  turned  to  the  right 
and  the  left  with  the  nervous  abruptness  of  his  quick,  self- 
repressed  nature.  The  members  and  the  public  hailed  him, 
and  he  answered  by  motions  of  his  gilded  helmet,  with  its  tall, 
waving  white  feather,  while  in  his  right  hand  he  held  a  paper 
scroll.  On  the  General's  tunic  which  he  wore  were  only  his 
foreign  military  medals  and  the  medal  for  bravery  in  the  field. 
And  in  his  close-fitting  uniform,  white  collar,  and  tightest  of 


46  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

trousers,  as  he  stood  under  the  overshadowing  red  dome  with 
his  helmet  on  his  wrist  in  the  attitude  of  a  soldier  at  attention, 
he  bore  an  unusually  martial  aspect,  thin,  brown,  and  strong, 
ever  in  readiness  to  mount  on  horseback,  ever  willing  to  sleep 
under  a  tent.  He  resembled  one  of  those  old  pictures  ot 
a  Commander-in-Chief,  with  proud,  piercing  eye  and  pale  visage, 
clasping  in  one  hand  a  rolled  parchment  on  which  the  plan  of 
a  fortress  is  drawn.  The  old  Prince  of  Savoia-Carignano,  the 
King's  uncle,  fat  and  bald,  placed  himself  at  the  right  of  the 
chair,  on  the  arm  ot  which  he  leant  his  flaccid  and  fatigued 
person,  but  he  did  not  sit  down  from  respect.  The  young 
Duke  of  Genoa,  brother  to  the  Queen  and  cousin  to  the 
King,  took  up  his  position  at  the  Sovereign's  left,  while  on  the 
floor  to  the  right  was  the  group  of  Ministers  and  to  the  left 
the  royal  household. 

Out  of  the  general  silence  rose  the  rather  harsh  voice  of  the 
King ;  and  certainly  the  hearts  of  many  of  those  politicians 
must  have  leapt  at  the  recollection  in  that  very  assembly  of 
another  voice,  slightly  veiled,  somewhat  strident,  a  voice  made 
for  giving  commands  in  battle,  and  that  spoke  the  loyal  words 
with  which  he  sealed  the  national  compact.  And  all  the  faces 
of  the  members  had  at  once  grown  thoughtful ;  they  remained 
motionless,  with  eyes  fastened  upon  the  King's.  All  of  the 
women  took  to  silence,  as  though  struck  by  a  sudden  sense  of 
reverence.  In  the  deep  quiet,  in  that  stillness  of  a  whole 
multitude,  the  respiration  of  the  King  was  audible  between  one 
sentence  and  the  next  of  the  royal  message.  And  the  voice  in 
which  he  spoke  sounded  like  that  paternal  one  ;  it  had  a 
certain  explosiveness,  certain  peculiar  accentuations,  in  its 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  47 

tone.  '  The  Queen  listened  intently  without  a  smile  from  the 
diplomats'  gallery,  her  handsome  face  bent  downward  and 
absorbed ;  the  ladies  were  listening  without  the  quiver  of  an 
eyelash;  the  whole  Ambassadors'  gallery  had  the  smile  that 
knows  what  is  coming ;  the  public  galleries  all  round  listened 
without  losing  a  word  ;  the  deputies,  standing  up,  listened,  and 
every  now  and  then  something  Uke  a  thrill  of  approval  ran 
through  the  assembly.  Twice  the  speech  was  interrupted  by 
applause.  At  times  a  louder  word  seemed  to  wing  its  way,  to 
soar  up  to  the  skylight :  peace — the  administration  of  justice — 
financial  retrenchment.  But  suddenly  the  voice  was  lowered, 
as  if  the  King  disdained  the  final  applause  crowning  his 
remarks,  and  he  stopped  short  as  if  fatigued.  The  last  words 
were  muttered  rather  than  spoken.  He  quickly  took  his 
helmet  from  the  armchair  where  he  had  deposited  it,  while 
the  audience  shouted,  '  Long  live  the  King !'  That  rapt 
attention,  however,  had  strained  people's  minds  and  imparted 
a  sense  of  awe  to  them.  The  event  of  the  day,  which  at  first 
had  seemed  but  a  strange  spectacle,  now  assumed  larger  pro- 
portions ;  the  royal  speech,  on  that  sole  occasion  on  which  the 
constitutional  Sovereign  spoke  in  public  declaring  his  will  and 
intentions,  became  a  solemn  promise.  A  few  of  the  most 
sensitive  women  had  a  little  cold  perspiration  at  the  temples  ; 
others  slapped  their  hands  lightly  with  their  fans,  and  with 
wandering  eyes  murmured,  '  Beautiful,  beautiful !'  and  the 
most  romantic  gazed  fixedly  at  the  Queen  to  observe  her 
emotion. 

Then  the  swearing-in  began.     Old  Depretis  had  advanced 
a  few  steps,  and  had  read  out  the  formula  for  the  senators  and 


48  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

deputies,  scanning  the  words  as  if  he  wanted  to  imprint  them 
on  the  minds  of  the  listeners. 

The  assembly  of  members  and  senators  stood  out  in  black 
and  white  from  the  bottom  to  the  top  of  the  sections,  an 
assembly  of  energetic  heads  and  puny  heads,  of  scintillating 
eyes  and  eyes  of  dead  fish,  of  bald,  shining  skulls,  and  of 
heavy,  leonine  manes.  Narrow  on  the  first  bench,  the  gathering 
spread  out  to  a  wide  semicircle  on  the  last,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  the  space  was  all  too  small  for  the  eruptive  force  of 
those  wills  and  those  brains. 

The  King  measured  the  nation's  representatives  with  a 
glance.  The  first  senator,  the  Duke  of  Genoa,  took  the  oath 
in  naval' fashion  in  a  vibrant  tone,  with  a  vigorous  gesture  j  he 
was  applauded.  Then  came  eight  new  senators ;  there  was 
a  stir  at  the  swearing  of  allegiance  by  the  great  Piedmontese 
Latinist,  who  was  a  clerical.  What  interested  the  audience 
most  was  the  swearing-in  of  the  deputies.  Depretis  said  their 
name  and  surname  and  waited  a  brief  moment,  and  from 
a  bench  a  weak  voice  or  a  strong  one  would  respond :  '  I 
swear  1'  In  that  moment  of  expectation  breathing  was  sus- 
pended; the  King's  eyes  sought  out  him  who  was  to  swear 
and  watched  him  take  the  oath. 

The  patriot  veterans  swore  in  military  style,  laying  their  bare 
hand  on  their  breast :  their  faith  was  proved.  The  lawyers 
took  the  oath  in  the  high  voice  of  persons  wishing  to  attract 
attention.  When  he  came  to  his  own  name,  Depretis  drew 
his  right  hand  from  his  Ministerial  uniform  coat,  and  extended 
it  as  he  took  the  oath ;  the  assembly  laughed  at  the  astute  old 
man  who  was  its  leader.    The  Minister  continued  to  tell  off 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  40 

the  names,  and  agitated  as  well  as  tranquil  answers  were  given, 
now  as  if  issuing  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  now  as  if 
descending  from  the  skylight.  The  old  Parliamentarians  took 
the  oath  simply  putting  out  a  hand  and  repeating  the  words  in 
an  undertone ;  the  radical  deputies,  who  had  long  been  pre- 
paring for  the  ordeal,  swore  in  extreme  haste,  as  if  to  get  rid 
of  a  load.  And  the  women  listened,  all  excitement,  all  seized 
with  unconquerable  emotion,  they,  the  inventors  of  all  sorts  of 
false  vows,  overcome  with  feeling  in  presence  of  those  solemn 
promises  made  by  five  hundred  men  to  one  man  and  to  the 
whole  nation. 

But  the  most  perturbed  were  the  new  members  :  this  royal 
and  Parliamentary  pomp,  this  male  and  female  public,  this 
message  of  the  King,  the  swearing-in  of  the  other  deputies — all 
this  had  shaken  their  nerves.  And  those  who  had  come  with 
the  intention  of  behaving  with  spirit,  of  swearing  as  if  it  were 
nothing  at  all  to  them,  trembled  with  impatience  while  waiting 
for  their  name,  and  then  piped  in  a  thin  little  note  which 
made  their  neighbours  smile,  and  which  was  inaudible  to  the 
crowd.  Some  played  furiously  with  their  watch-chain,  and 
when  they  were  called  started  up  as  if  from  a  dream,  ejaculated 
a  choked  and  hurried  /  swear  !  and  fell  back  into  their  seat. 

Between  the  Honourable  Salviati — a  Florentine  Duke — and 
the  deputy  Santini,  the  oath  was  taken,  in  a  strangled  voice 
that  nobody  heard,  by  the  Honourable  Francesco  Sangiorgio. 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  door  marked  No.  50  in  the  Via  Angelo  Custode  was 
situated  two  doors  from  a  large,  gray,  dismal  mansion,  which 
was  closed  up.  Francesco  Sangiorgio  hesitated  a  moment : 
there  was  no  one  to  ask  for  information.  One  of  the  wings  of 
the  door  was  shut,  the  other  ajar.  The  deputy  entered  a 
dingy  passage-way,  and  advanced  six  or  seven  paces  before 
reaching  the  stairs.  He  perceived  that  they  were  winding 
stairs,  and  in  order  not  to  risk  breaking  his  neck  he  lit  a 
match.  But  at  the  first  floor  there  was  rather  more  light,  and 
at  the  second  one  might  almost  see.  Upon  the  landing  were 
three  doors,  and  to  that  in  the  middle  was  attached  by  two 
bent  pins  a  dirty  visiting  card  bearing  a  forename  and  a  sur- 
name :  *  Alessandro  Bertocchini.'  Sangiorgio  consulted  the 
piece  of  paper  given  him  by  the  house-agent.  This  was  the 
name.     He  knocked. 

For  some  time  no  one  came ;  he  knocked  again,  timidly. 
Then  was  heard  a  great  rattling  of  keys  and  chains,  of  bolts 
pushed  and  drawn,  and  at  last  the  middle  door  was  cautiously 
opened  a  few  inches.  A  tall  man  with  a  red  nose  and  two  fair 
curls  plastered  against  his  temples  appeared.  The  Honourable 
touched  his  hat,  and  asked  if  Signor  Alessandro  Bertocchini 
lived  here.     It  was  himself — the  man  of  the  ruddy  nose  and 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  51 

washed-out  complexion.  Was  there  not  an  apartment  to  let  ? 
Signer  Alessandro  examined  Sangiorgio,  ogled  the  gold  medal 
all  over,  and  said  : 

'  Certainly,  there  is  a  furnished  apartment  to  let ;  I  will  go 
for  the  keys.'  And  plunging  his  frosty  fingers  into  his  pockets, 
he  left  the  deputy  to  wait  on  the  landing.  Through  the  open 
doorway  a  small  anteroom  was  visible,  with  a  table,  a  chair, 
and  a  lamp,  and  a  breath  of  staleness,  of  ancient  dust,  assailed 
the  lungs. 

'Here  it  is,*  twittered  Signer  Alessandro  in  his  thin,  high  voice. 

He  opened  the  door  at  the  left.  There  was  a  dingy  room 
with  a  chair,  and  then  a  long  narrow  room,  looking  out  upon  a 
balcony.  Along  one  of  the  walls  stood  a  sofa  of  crimson  cloth, 
with  the  back  and  arms  of  painted  and  tarnished  wood.  At 
each  end  of  the  sofa  was  an  easy-chair,  upon  which  were  pieces 
of  lace  crochet-work  ;  in  front  was  a  threadbare  carpet.  Along 
the  opposite  wall  ran  a  white  marble  mantelpiece,  upon  which 
stood  two  tall  petroleum  lamps,  a  clock  that  had  stopped,  and 
three  photographs  in  their  frames.  On  the  wall  hung  a  long, 
narrow  mirror,  somewhat  greenish,  in  whose  corners  were  stuck, 
for  ornament,  little  red,  yellow,  and  blue  oleographs  of  the  King, 
Queen,  and  heir  to  the  throne.  Near  the  mantle  were  two 
wooden  chairs  cushioned  with  crimson  cloth.  Close  to  the 
balcony  was  a  writing-table,  also  with  cloth  cover,  of  crochet- 
work,  with  green,  violet,  scarlet,  orange,  and  indigo  stars,  and 
in  the  centre  stood  a  carved  matchstand.  Before  the  balcony 
hung  two  shabby  lace  curtains  beneath  a  piece  of  red  woollen 
drapery.  Two  more  chairs  of  black  wood  completed  the 
furniture. 

4—2 


52  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

•  This  is  the  parlour,'  said  Signer  Alessandro,  in  his  weak, 
drawling  voice,  looking  into  the  air,  his  shivering  hands  stuck 
into  the  pockets  of  his  jacket. 

Francesco  Sangiorgio  stepped  to  the  balcony ;  it  faced  an 
inside  courtyard,  on  which  fronted  many  other  windows, 
balconies,  doors,  and  loggias.  Above  a  housetop,  the  barren 
branch  of  a  tree  protruded.  From  the  bottom  of  the  yard 
rose  a  strong  smell  of  kitchen,  of  slops,  and  dishwater.  The 
landlord  said  nothing,  and  kept  his  air  of  indifference,  allowing 
the  deputy  to  investigate  the  apartment.  The  bedchamber 
adjoined  the  parlour,  and  was  likewise  long  and  narrow.  The 
bed  stood  lengthwise,  and  beside  it  were  a  chair  and  the 
nightstand ;  before  it  lay  a  carpet  like  that  in  the  parlour,  and 
at  the  back  was  a  blue  cloth  easy-chair,  with  a  spot  that  had 
eaten  into  the  colour.  Against  the  other  wall  stood  a  chest  of 
drawers  whose  wooden  top  was  somewhat  stained,  with  circles 
on  it,  as  if  wet  glasses  had  been  there ;  the  two  brass  candle- 
sticks were  without  candles.  The  toilet-table  stood  in  a 
recess ;  here,  too,  lace  curtains  appeared  beneath  a  piece  of 
print,  with  dark  background  and  large  red  and  yellow  roses. 
The  splendours  of  this  room  consisted  in  a  tobacco-coloured 
feather  quilt  on  the  bed,  with  many-hued  woollen  arabesques^ 
Jug  and  basin  were  hidden  in  a  corner,  where  stood  the  wash- 
stand,  without  towels  and  without  water. 

'  The  price  ?'  inquired  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio. 

'Eighty  lire  a  month — in  advance,'  whistled  Signor  Ales- 
sandro's  plaintive  organ. 

'  And  what  about  the  service  ?' 

'  There  is  a  servant  who  makes  the  bed,  sweeps,  brushes  the 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  53 

clothes-  and  polishes  the  boots.  Eighty  lire  a  month — in 
advance.'  And  he  sighed  deeply,  running  his  hand  through 
his  hair,  which  bore  the  aspect  of  varnished  mahogany. 

'Rather  dear — eighty  lire.' 

The  Signor  Alessandro  preserved  silence,  since  he  perhaps 
could  not  muster  enough  breath  for  a  discussion,  and  did  not 
want  to  waste  any.  As  they  were  about  to  leave  the  apart- 
ment, he  added  simply,  with  his  nose  in  the  air,  like  a  donkey 
taking  an  anxious  sniff; 

'  You  are  permitted  free  entrance.' 

The  Honourable  Sangiorgio  went  away,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  Perhaps  he  would  come  back.  In  the  street,  near 
the  offices  of  the  Minister  of  Agriculture,  he  met  His  Excel- 
lency's wife,  the  lady  he  had  seen  at  the  station.  Tall,  slender, 
habited  in  black,  wearing  a  velvet  cloak,  she  was  quite  fresh 
and  young  behind  her  black  veil.  She  walked  with  rhythmical 
step,  her  gloved  hands  hidden  in  her  muff,  her  eyes  downcast, 
as  though  she  were  immersed  in  thought.  And  there  was  such 
dignity  and  sweetness  in  that  female  form  that  the  Honourable 
Sangiorgio  involuntarily  bowed  to  her.  But  His  Excellency's 
wife  did  not  acknowledge  his  bow,  and  passed  on,  proceeding 
towards  the  Via  Angelo  Custode  along  the  pavement.  And  in 
Francesco  Sangiorgio  arose  a  profound  feeling  of  resentment, 
because  of  the  rejected  salute. 

He  next  walked  to  the  Piazza  del  Pantheon,  to  the  second 
address  given  him  by  the  house-agent,  and  he  passed  along 
the  streets  with  that  everlasting  symptom  of  moral  oppression, 
a  weight  on  his  chest,  on  his  shoulders,  on  his  head,  which  he 
had  been  unable  to  shake  off  from  the  day  of  his  arrival  in 


54  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

Rome,  and  in  the  thoroughfares  he  met  people  who  also  wore 
the  same  expression  of  dejection. 

The  house  was  midway  between  the  Pantheon  and  the 
Piazza  della  Minerva,  and  next  door  to  a  bakery.  From  below 
were  to  be  seen  two  windows,  with  white  blinds  stretched 
tight.  It  was  on  the  first  floor  :  three  doors,  all  three  bearing 
the  names  of  women,  one  of  them  written  in  violet  ink,  and  in 
a  feminine  hand,  on  a  tiny  bit  of  pink  pasteboard.  The 
right-hand  door,  marked  '  Virginia  Magnani,'  was  opened  by 
an  untidy  maid-servant,  who  stared  Sangiorgio  in  the  face 
without  speaking.  But  after  a  moment  the  landlady  arrived, 
in  a  blue  cashmere  gown  trimmed  with  white  lace,  her  front 
locks  in  curl-papers. 

'Has  the  gentleman  come  about  the  apartment?  Run 
away,  Nanna  !  Step  in,  step  in — I  am  quite  at  your  service ! 
Pray  excuse  me  for  receiving  you  like  this,  but  one  never 
manages  to  finish  dressing  in  the  morning.  I  go  to  the  theatre 
sometimes,  with  Toto,  to  hear  Marini ;  it  gets  late,  and  then, 
of  course,  one  is  too  tired  to  get  up  in  the  morning.' 

Sangiorgio  listened,  taken  aback  by  the  loquacity  of  this 
little  woman  with  the  powdered  cheeks. 

'  Did  Pochalsky  send  you  here  ?' 

'  Yes,  madam.' 

'I  thought  so.  Pochalsky  knows  that  this  house  is  for 
deputies.  I  take  no  others.  But  allow  me :  this  is  the  wait- 
ing-room, and  here  is  a  table  with  writing  materials  for  the 
voters  who  do  not  find  their  deputy  at  home.  I  had  the 
Honourable  Santinelli  here.  He  was  besieged  from  morning 
till  night,  never  a  minute's  rest,  so  he  always  used  to  tell  me 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  55 

when  we  chatted  together  a  Httle — he  was  so  civil,  the  Honour- 
able Santinelli.  "  My  dear  Signora  Virginia,"  he  would  say, 
**  I  can  endure  this  life  no  longer !"  This,  as  you  see,  is  the 
parlour,  neat  and  elegant.  All  these  hangings  are  my  own 
work ;  I  made  them  when  I  was  younger  and  had  no  troubles 
on  my  mind.  No  matter — we  will  not  speak  of  that.  Here  is 
everything — carpet,  cushions.  The  Deputy  Gagliardi  would 
never  have  gone  away,  he  was  so  comfortable  here,  if  the  voters 
had  not  played  him  the  trick  of  not  re-electing  him.  But 
political  life  is  full  of  these  disappointments ' 

And  the  little  woman  put  on  a  serious  look,  her  lips  pinched 
and  her  head  down  on  one  shoulder.  This  parlour  was  really 
not  very  different  from  that  of  the  Via  Angelo  Custode  :  there 
was  more  faded  drapery,  a  larger  number  of  photographs,  and 
an  American  rocking-chair.  The  gilded  frame  of  the  mirror 
had  a  green  net  covering,  to  preserve  it  from  the  flies. 

'  This,'  continued  the  Signora  Virginia  in  a  strong  Roman 
accent,  '  is  the  bedroom.  There  is  a  little  library,  for  books, 
as  I  have  always  had  studious  deputies.  The  Honourable 
Gotti  was  reading  novels  the  whole  time.    Do  you  read  novels  ?' 

*No,  madam,  never.' 

'  That's  a  pity,  because  you  might  have  lent  me  some.  A 
clothes  cupboard  is  wanting  here,  but  I  am  waiting  for  a  sale 
in  the  Via  Viminale,  where  Muccioli,  the  auctioneer,  has 
promised  to  keep  a  good  wardrobe  for  me.  However,  you  can 
let  me  take  care  of  your  clothes — your  dress-suit,  your  over- 
coat, your  pelisse — I  will  keep  them  in  my  own  wardrobe,  and 
they  will  be  quite  safe.  Here  is  everything — basin,  jug,  slop- 
jar,  bed  with  two  good  curtains,  etcetera.     Look  at  it — look  at 


56  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

it  all,  and  satisfy  yourself.  I  am  not  boasting,  but  night  and 
morning  Toto  gives  thanks  to  God  for  having  blessed  him 
with  a  wife  like  Virginia.     All  this,  Honourable ' 

*  Sangiorgio — Francesco  Sangiorgio.' 
'  Deputy  for ' 

*  Tito,  Basilicata.' 

*  Honourable  Sangiorgio,  all  this  is  to  be  had  for  a  hundred 
and  thirty  lire  a  month,  not  a  centesimo  less,  for  I  make 
nothing  by  it.  If  I  had  to  live  by  letting  rooms,  I  should  be 
left  out  in  the  cold.  In  the  anteroom  there  is  a  door  com- 
municating with  my  apartment ;  when  it  is  locked  you  have 
your  own  apartment,  with  free  entrance.  You  require  free 
entrance,  do  you  ?'  And  she  looked  at  him  searchingly  out  of 
her  light  cat's  eyes. 

Sangiorgio  did  not  quite  understand. 

'I  do  not  know — I  do  not  know,'  he  said  at  haphazard. 

*  Because,  if  you  wanted  free  entrance,  of  course  you  would 
pay  twenty  lire  more  per  month — a  hundred  and  fifty  lire. 
But  if  you  are  married,  and  want  other  rooms  for  your  lady, 
there  is  my  sister,  Restituta  Coppi,  on  the  same  landing,  who 
has  rooms  to  dispose  of.  My  sister's-in-law,  on  the  second 
floor,  I  cannot  recommend  ;  she  is  not  cleanly,  poor  creature  ! 
She  belongs  to  the  lower  classes,  like  all  of  them  in  this  region. 
It  was  a  fatal  mistake  that  poor  George — my  brother — made. 
Are  you  married.  Honourable  ?' 

'No,  madam.' 

'Very  well,  then.  You  had  better  enjoy  your  youth,  too, 
because  it's  a  horrible  thing  to  marry  too  soon.  I,  praise  God  ! 
cannot  complain,  for  Tito  is  a  flower  of  a  man ;  but,  still, 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  57 

liberty  is  best.  I  always  said  so  to  the  Deputy  Gotti,  who  was 
a  bachelor,  like  yourself,  Honourable  Sangiorgio,  and  he  would 
answer  amiably — as,  indeed,  was  his  habit — "  I  should  have  to 
find  another  Signora  Virginia  before  I  married,  but  there  are 
no  more  of  them."  Well,  we  were  saying  a  hundred  and  thirty 
lire  a  month,  which  is  really  a  low  price,  and  ten  lire  a  month 
for  service  to  Nanna ;  and  then  there  is  the  gas  on  the  stairs 
until  eleven  o'clock — five  lire.  By-the-by,  I  can  also  have  your 
washing  attended  to.  I  have  an  excellent  laundress ;  she 
washes  with  March  water  and  soap  and  no  potash.  In  fact, 
there  is  everything  you  want,  and  if  some  day  the  Honourable 
should  wish  to  dine  at  home,  being  sick  of  the  pastry  one  eats 
at  the  cook-shops,  there  is  Toto,  my  husband,  who  amuses 
himself  with  making  and  cooking  dumplings.  They  are  a 
joy !  I  never  set  foot  in  the  kitchen  myself;  my  health  is  too 
delicate ' 

They  had  gone  back  to  the  waiting-room,  and  Sangiorgio 
maintained  the  cold  reserve  of  the  taciturn  towards  the  talkative. 

'  And — you  will  excuse  me,  sir,'  suddenly  said  the  Signora 
Virginia  in  a  voice  become  hard  because  of  Sangiorgio's  long 
silence,  '  but  what  do  you  propose  to  do  ?  I  have  many 
inquiries,  you  will  understand ;  an  apartment  like  this  is  an 
opportunity  not  to  be  neglected.' 

'Do  not  let  me  hinder  your  business,  madam,'  said  the 
deputy,  in  whom  the  natural  diffidence  of  the  provincial 
asserted  itself.     '  In  case  I  want  the  rooms  I  will  let  you  know.' 

'  I  may  expect  a  letter,  then  ?  Am  I  to  call  and  ask  for  it  at 
the  Parliament  ?'  she  asked  in  tones  once  more  mellifluous. 

•  No,  do  not  trouble  ;  I  will  send  word.' 


58  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

The  Signora  Virginia  bowed  and  held  out  her  hand  like  a 
great  lady.  As  soon  as  he  was  on  the  stairs,  he  felt  tired  of  all 
the  jabber  and  quite  bewildered,  and  it  seemed  to  him  as  if 
he  had  already  been  to  ten  houses.  He  had  two  more 
addresses  on  his  piece  of  paper,  and  his  inclination  to  pursue 
the  choice  had  greatly  diminished.  It  was  only  by  a  revulsion 
that  he  was  able  to  give  orders  to  be  driven  to  the  Via  del 
Gambero,  No.  37,  since  he  did  not  yet  know  the  streets.  The 
Via  del  Gambero  had  the  atmosphere  of  mystery  of  the  streets 
parallel  to  the  Corso,  affected  by  hurrying  men  and  busy 
women.  From  the  great  Palazzo  Raggi,  with  its  courtyard 
like  a  square,  with  one  entrance  on  the  Corso  and  the  other 
on  the  Via  Gambero,  every  now  and  then  someone  would 
issue  forth  who  was  avoiding  the  crowd  or  in  fear  of  dangerous 
encounters,  and  who  hastened  away  without  looking  back.  In 
the  porch  of  No.  37,  a  decent-looking  place,  there  was  a 
wooden  porter's  box  with  a  window-pane,  deriving  its  light 
from  the  house.     A  little  woman  came  out  to  meet  the  deputy. 

*  Have  you  not  an  apartment  to  let  here  on  the  third  floor?' 

*  Yes,  sir.     Will  you  look  at  it  ?' 
'  I  should  like  to  see  it.' 

The  little  woman  went  back  into  her  box,  picked  out  a  key 
from  a  bunch,  and  set  forth,  blinking  the  red  eyelids  which 
belonged  to  a  pair  of  gray  eyes.  She  was  evidently  the 
porteress.  She  was  dressed  in  green  cloth,  faded  and  worn 
out,  and  rather  showily  trimmed ;  she  wore  a  chestnut  wig, 
with  a  false  plait  at  the  neck  and  a  fluffy  fringe  on  the  fore- 
head. As  she  went  upstairs  her  dirty,  red  silk  stockings 
showed.     As  for  the  flaccid,  wan  cheeks,  white  and  dotted 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  59 

with  freckles,  and  the  pale-violet,  youthful  mouth,  one  might 
guess  that  once  this  face  had  been  round,  rosy,  and  that  it  had 
collapsed  suddenly  like  a  doll's  from  which  the  sawdust  has 
escaped  through  a  little  hole.  The  staircase  was  spacious,  and 
had  wide  turnings,  a  rare  circumstance  in  Roman  houses  ;  on 
every  landing  were  three  doors,  uniformly  situated.  On  the 
first  floor,  to  the  right,  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio  read : 
*  Barone  di  Sangarzia,  Deputy  to  Parliament ';  there  was 
nothing  on  the  middle  door,  and  to  the  left  was :  '  Anna 
Scartozzi,  Tailoress.'  On  the  second  floor,  to  the  right,  the 
door  was  marked  :  '  Marchese  di  Tuttavilla,  Deputy  to  Parlia- 
ment'; no  name  was  on  the  door  in  the  centre,  and  that  on  the 
left  bore  the  inscription  :  '  Commission  and  General  Agency.' 

*  Have  these  two  deputies  also  furnished  rooms  ?' 

'No,  sir,  they  furnish  their  own,  but  the  apartment  is  the 
same,'  replied  the  woman,  inserting  the  key  in  the  lock  of  the 
right-hand  door  of  the  third  floor,  where  no  name  was  on  the 
middle  door,  and  on  the  left :  '  Paolo  Galasso,  Dentist.' 

The  apartment  facing  the  street  was  very  light,  and  the 
furniture,  which  was  almost  new,  had  pretensions  to  elegance. 
A  majolica  flower-vase  stood  on  a  table,  and  there  was  a  fire- 
place— a  real  fireplace — an  extreme  luxury  in  a  Roman  middle- 
class  house. 

'  You  can  light  a  fire  here,  and  after  dinner,  in  winter,  that 
is  a  pleasure,'  observed  the  woman.  'There  are  fireplaces  on 
each  floor.  The  deputy  on  the  first  floor  has  his  lighted  in  the 
morning  ;  he  has  a  blazing  fire  all  day.' 

'  But  does  he  not  go  to  the  Chamber  ?'  asked  Sangiorgio, 
yielding  to  inquisitiveness. 


6o  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

'Not  always — not  always,'  answered  the  woman,  with  a 
malicious  smile  that  spread  all  over  her  face. 

*  And  what  does  one  pay  here  ?'  Sangiorgio  interrupted  dryly. 
'  One  hundred  and  eighty  lire  a  month.* 

*  It  seems  dear.' 

*  No,  sir ;  if  you  will  inquire  about  prices,  as  you  are  a 
stranger,  you  will  see  it  is  not  too  high,  in  the  middle  of  Rome, 
two  steps  from  the  Corso.  I  am  not  boasting,  but  the  apart- 
ment is  arranged  in  the  best  taste ;  I  have  always  understood 
how  to ' 

And  the  porteress  brushed  down  the  fringe  of  the  wig  over 
her  forehead.     The  deputy  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

*  It  is  dear,'  he  insisted. 

'  You  are  not  obliged  to  take  it,  you  know,  but  if  you  want 
a  large  apartment  with  a  door  on  the  landing,  furnished  and 
comfortable,  with  a  fireplace,  and  everybody  minding  their  own 
business,  that  is  convenience  you  will  find  nowhere  else,  and 
if  you  want  all  this  in  the  Via  del  Gambero  for  less  than  a 
hundred  and  eighty  lire,  my  dear  sir,  I  assure  you  the  thing  is 
impossible.  The  deputy  on  the  first  floor  came  here  four  years 
ago,  and  was  so  well  suited  that  he  has  remained  ever  since ; 
the  deputy  on  the  second  story  came  on  the  recommendation  of 
a  friend,  and  has  already  stayed  two  years.  No  one  ever  leaves. 
The  dressmaker  on  the  first  floor  has  ladies  of  the  aristocracy 
for  her  customers ;  there  is  always  a  carriage  before  our  door.* 
•Yes,  I  understand,  but  these  things  do  not  interest  me.* 
'Quite  so,  sir!  But  you  will  come  back,  you  will  come 
back,  for  you  will  find  nothing  as  good  as  this,  I  am  sure ;  the 
place  was  positively  made  for  you  !' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  6i 

And  as  they  went  downstairs  there  ascended  a  lady  wrapped 
in  a  fur  cape,  with  a  brown  veil  that  went  round  her  hat,  head, 
neck,  and  chin,  under  which  it  was  tied  in  a  showy  knot. 
She  walked  up  slowly. 

'  There  is  one  of  the  dressmaker's  customers,'  murmured  the 
porteress.     '  She  is  no  doubt  going  to  have  a  gown  fitted.' 

But  the  bell  of  the  dressmaking  establishment  was  not  heard 
to  ring,  and  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio,  casting  his  eyes  up- 
ward, perceived  that  the  disguised  woman  was  quietly 
mounting  to  the  second  floor. 

In  haste  to  have  done  with  it,  he  ordered  the  coachman  — 
for  he  was  still  driving — to  go  to  the  top  of  the  Capo  le  Case,  a 
bright,  lively,  sunny  street  cutting  midway  across  the  Via  Due 
Macelli.  An  atmosphere  of  refinement,  of  aristocratic  self- 
possession  wafted  thither  from  the  neighbouring  Piazza  di 
Spagna,  Via  Sistina,  Via  Propaganda,  and  Via  Condotti,  the 
most  fashionable  part  of  Rome.  No.  128  was  situated 
opposite  a  shop  where  English  biscuits  were  sold,  and 
preserves,  and  liquors,  and  soaps,  a  grocery,  as  the  English  call 
it,  whence  streamed  a  strong  and  almost  warm  smell  of  spices. 
Next  to  it  was  a  florist's  shop,  full  of  vases  with  bulrushes,  of 
reeds,  of  tree-trunks,  with  winter  roses  in  the  window,  a  bunch 
of  lilies  of  the  valley  in  a  jar,  tender,  early  flowers.  The  stairs 
were  marble,  clean,  and  lit  from  above  by  a  window  in  the 
roof.  Three  doors  fronted  on  each  landing ;  they  were  of 
light  wood,  of  varnished  maple,  with  shining  brass  knobs  for 
knockers.  A  servant  in  undress  livery  opened  the  door 
immediately,  and  ushered  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio  into  a 
dim  parlour,  saying  that  the  lady  of  the  house  would  join  him 


62  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

in  a  moment.  The  Honourable  felt  a  soft  carpet  under  foot, 
and  sat  down,  fingering  the  low,  pliant  lounge.  In  the  half- 
darkness  he  distinguished  a  table  covered  with  a  gold  plush 
cloth,  on  it  a  Japanese  ash-tray  and  a  vase  of  Venetian  glass. 
But  a  light  footfall  was  heard,  and  the  woman  of  the  house 
entered.  She  was  tall,  not  stout,  but  with  a  full  figure ;  with 
a  head  of  chestnut  hair  neatly  dressed,  frizzed  by  curling-irons, 
and  adorned  by  tortoiseshell  combs ;  with  a  plain,  black  gown 
of  a  soft  material,  and  a  high,  white  linen  collar  buttoned  by 
a  gold  horseshoe  stud. 

*  Will  you  oblige  me  ?'  she  said. 

They  went  out  together  upon  the  landing,  and  now  he 
observed  the  opaque  pallor  of  the  ivory  face  of  a  woman  in 
the  thirties,  and  her  fathomless,  turbid,  coal-black  eyes,^with 
something  claustral  in  their  depths.  Her  fair,  plump  hand 
closed  caressingly  on  the  key.  The  apartment  was  small,  but 
bright  and  cheerful,  as  if  it  were  in  the  sunlight  of  the  open 
country.  The  parlour  furniture  was  a  gray  and  pink  chintz, 
very  agreeable  to  the  eye ;  the  mirror  was  oval,  with  a  ledge  of 
carved  wood ;  a  long,  low  sofa  stood  near  the  bay-window, 
hung  with  close,  embroidered  muslin  curtains,  which,  draped 
in  heavy  folds  and  without  cords,  dragged  on  the  floor.  A 
great  array  of  photographs  were  queerly  disposed  on  the  wall, 
as  if  they  had  been  thrown  at  it  at  haphazard ;  on  a  tiny 
writing-desk  stood  a  red  plush  photograph  frame  without  a 
picture.  The  bedroom  had  pale-blue,  satin-plush  furniture, 
with  a  similar  counterpane  on  the  bed,  which  was  spread  with 
a  wide  lace  coverlet  j  the  toilet-table  was  fitted  out  in  white 
fancy  muslin,  embellished  with  bows  of  blue  ribbon  ;  the  ward- 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  63 

robe  had  a  mirror  door,  and  at  the  windows,  besides  the  soft 
curtains  dragging  on  the  floor,  were  little  screens  behind  the 
panes,  of  light-blue,  wavy  silk. 

*  There  is  a  dressing-room,  too,'  murmured  the  lady,  without 
smiling. 

'No,  I  will  not  trouble  you,'  interposed  the  other. 

'  No,  no,  I  want  you  to  see  it  j  it  is  important ;  it  has  a 
door  opening  on  the  stairs.' 

The  mistress,  with  her  rather  fleshy,  rather  pasty  face, 
resembling  some  of  the  old  Roman  heads,  opened  another 
door,  which  fronted  on  the  landing  j  this  was  the  third  door, 
so  that  this  apartment  of  two  rooms  and  a  half  had  two  free 
entrances. 

'  It  is  a  very  convenient  house,'  she  suggested  demurely, 
inspecting  a  hand,  and  smoothing  it  to  make  it  whiter.  In 
her  black  dress,  with  its  statuesque  folds,  and  with  the  pale, 
calm  Roman  matron's  countenance,  she  imposed  respect.  The 
Honourable  Sangiorgio  spoke  to  her  as  to  a  lady  of  high  station. 

*  The  apartment  is  rather  too  luxurious  for  me,'  he  said. 
'  I  like  it  very  much,  but  my  requirements  are  very  plain.' 

*  Indeed  !'  she  remarked,  as  if  she  did  not  quite  believe  him, 
in  a  lightly  courteous  tone. 

'  Yes,  I  assure  you  I  am  something  of  a  savage,'  continued 
Sangiorgio  frankly.  *  I  want  a  quiet  place  for  my  work,  and 
nothing  more.  I  spend  much  time  at  the  Parliament.  Here 
— it  is  a  little  feminine,  it  seems  to  me,'  he  added  smilingly. 

'Yes,  there  was  a  Russian  lady  here  last  year;  she  was 
called  away,  and  had  to  leave.'  And  she  stopped,  without 
vouchsafing  further  explanations. 


64  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

'And — the  price?'  asked  the  deputy,  after  a  moment's 
hesitation. 

*  Two  hundred  and  fifty  lire  a  month,'  replied  the  lady 
placidly,  straightening  the  horseshoe  collar-stud. 

*  Ah !  And  service  and  gas  included  ?'  the  Honourable 
Sangiorgio  inquired,  with  genteel  curiosity. 

'  You  would  have  to  come  to  an  understanding  with  Teresa, 
my  maid.' 

*To  be  sure — to  be  sure,'  murmured  the  other,  as  if  in 
apology. 

The  pale-faced  woman  with  the  deep  black  eyes,  which  were 
so  full  of  liquid,  nun-like  melancholy,  accompanied  the  deputy 
back  to  the  door,  without  even  asking  him  whether  he  intended 
to  engage  the  apartment,  took  leave  of  him  with  a  smile — her 
first — and  did  not  shake  hands  with  him. 

He  now  felt  exhausted,  overcome  with  a  deadly  lassitude ; 
the  November  sun  stung  him  like  the  burning  rays  of  August, 
and  the  air  weighed  heavily  upon  him.  Surely  there  must 
have  been  some  faint  but  effective  perfume  in  that  Capo  le 
Case  house,  of  the  kind  which  first  excites  the  nerves  and  then 
brings  a  state  of  languor.  Perhaps  the  perfume  had  been 
worn  by  the  lady  who  was  so  pallid,  so  severe,  with  the  im- 
posing claustral  mien  of  a  high-born  Abbess,  in  her  black  gown 
and  white  collar.  While  idly  walking  along  the  Via  Mercede, 
he  drew  a  picture  in  his  mind  of  the  pink  and  gray  parlour,  so 
sweet  in  its  simplicity,  of  the  blue  room  all  veiled  with  white, 
of  the  double  curtains  floating  and  billowy,  with  their  sugges- 
tion of  privacy,  of  the  retreat  ensconced  high  up,  away  from 
the  world.     All  that  furniture — the  lounge  upon  which  the 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  65 

Russian  lady  must  have  reposed,  to  dream  the  dreams  of  a 
whimsical  foreigner ;  that  minute  table,  on  which  she  had 
written  her  letters ;  that  dressing-table,  before  which  she  had 
bedecked  herself — that  whole  female  domain  presented  itself 
to  him.  But  most  of  all  was  he  interested  in  that  red  frame 
containing  no  portrait,  as  though  it  had  been  carried  off  in 
haste  by  a  bustling  traveller.  He  was  unable  to  imagine  this 
Russian  lady's  face,  and  in  the  empty  place  which  his  fancy 
failed  to  fill  up  he  always  would  find  the  white  oval,  like  an 
ivory  carnation,  of  the  other  woman,  with  the  gentle  waves  of 
chestnut  hair  surrounding  her  face. 

Unconsciously  he  had  entered  the  Aragno  cafe,  and  in  the 
last,  small,  solitary  room  he  had  bespoken  a  glass  of  cognac, 
to  relieve  him  of  his  depression.     The  Capo  le  Case  lady  again 
appeared  to   him,  but   in   less  precise  shape ;    all  the  more 
clearly,  on  the  other  hand,  did  he  picture  the  woman  in  the 
fur  cloak  whom  he  had  met  on  the  staircase  in  the  Via  del 
Gambero.     He  had  observed  her  arched,  alert  foot,  daintily 
poised  on  a  step  close  to  the  iron  railing,  and  he  wanted  to 
know  where   she  had  intended  to  go,  because,  startled  at 
meeting  him,  she  had  pretended  to  knock  at  the  tailoress's 
door,  and  had  then  proceeded  further  up,  her  head  down,  and 
the  lower  part  of  her  face  immersed  in  the  heavy,  brown  veil. 
The  porteress,  certainly,  must  know  her ;  yes,  she  must  know 
her  quite  well,  that  porteress  with  the  flaccid  countenance  and 
the   hideous    eyes ;    there   was    cunning   in   her    insinuating 
language.     Who  knows  ?    She  must  have  been  handsome,  the 
porteress  with  the  horrible  wig — perhaps  also  genteel ;  she  must 
have  a  curious  history,  and  he  had  not  given  her  time  to  talk,  as 

5 


66  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

she  had  desired  to.  Signora  Virginia,  however,  had  told  him 
a  considerable  portion  of  her  history,  but  what  sort  of  wife  was 
she  who  read  novels  while  her  husband  cooked  dumplings  in 
the  kitchen  ?  And  from  his  depression  he  gradually  revived, 
harbouring  a  growing  interest  for  all  those  feminine  puzzles : 
the  vision  of  the  Russian  lady,  that  mysterious  person  of  the 
Via  Capo  le  Case;  the  visitor  of  the  Via  del  Gambero  and 
her  secret ;  the  porteress's  behaviour ;  the  singular  confusion 
manifested  in  Signora  Virginia's  verbosity.  He  would  have 
liked  to  know,  understand,  appreciate  all  this  furtive  femininity, 
that  eluded  him,  that  was  hid  from  his  curiosity ;  and  from 
this  his  detailed  consideration,  from  this  analytical  review  of 
women  seen  and  women  fancied,  a  desire  arose  which  had  up 
till  then  been  latent :  a  certain  figure  displaced  all  the  rest, 
excluded  them,  and  appeared  before  him,  tall,  lithe,  black- 
gowned,  placid  and  pink  behind  a  black  veil,  walking  slowly, 
with  measured  step  and  steady  gaze — the  wife  of  His  Ex- 
cellency. Where  might  she  have  been  going  at  that  hour — 
where  was  His  Excellency's  wife  going? 

Just  then,  outside  in  the  street,  the  large,  full-bodied  Duke 
di  Bonito  was  passing  by,  the  popular  Neapolitan  deputy,  his 
face  slashed  across  with  a  sabre-cut ;  rolling  upon  his  legs  as 
he  walked,  he  resembled  a  clumsy  merchant  vessel,  one  of 
those  black,  flat  ships  that  run  into  the  little  ports  of  Torre- 
greco  and  Granatello,  and  into  Portici,  to  unload  coal  and  take 
in  cargoes  of  macaroni.  Beside  him  was  his  faithful  friend, 
the  deputy  Pietraroia,  with  a  calm  face  and  a  violent  disposi- 
tion— a  man  of  quiet  voice  and  impassioned  language,  who  for 
months  and  months  would  sit  silent  in  the  Chamber,  and 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  67 

then,  one  day,  would  break  out  with  Southern  ardour,  astonish- 
ing everybody.  The  Honourable  Sangiorgio  looked  after  them 
for  a  minute ;  they  were  returning  from  breakfast,  and  on  the 
pavement  they  met  the  third  of  the  Neapolitan  trinity,  the 
Honourable  Piccirillo,  with  a  fair,  flowing  beard,  with  small 
blue  eyes,  the  lord  of  the  turbulent  popular  district  of  Naples. 
And  then  a  lively  conversation  ensued  on  the  pavement. 
The  Honourable  Piccirillo  narrated  something  important  and 
authentic,  gesticulating,  making  signs  with  his  hand  injured  in 
a  duel  with  the  Honourable  Dalma,  tugging  at  an  overcoat 
button  of  the  Duke  of  Bonito,  who  giggled  and  sniggered 
incredulously,  ironically,  with  the  cold  scepticism  of  a  man 
who  has  seen  life ;  and  meanwhile  the  Honourable  Pietraroia 
was  listening  composedly,  as  he  daintily  twisted  his  moustache. 
Opposite  Sangiorgio,  huddled  up  behind  a  small  table,  with 
his  shrunken  legs  and  his  wizened  baby-face,  the  Honourable 
Scabzi,  the  working-man  delegate,  the  only  one  in  Parliament, 
whom  Milan  had  elected,  was  modestly  breakfasting  on  a  cup 
of  coffee  and  a  roll. 

Francesco  Sangiorgio,  once  more  in  his  usual  sphere,  and 
his  thoughts  running  in  a  more  serious  channel  of  reflection, 
felt  suddenly  reinvigorate,  as  if  free  from  the  burden  of 
indolence  which  had  been  weighing  upon  him  that  morning. 
All  those  women  whom  he  had  seen,  with  whom  he  had  spoken, 
had  infused  a  sort  of  debihty  into  his  veins,  had  debased  his 
spirit  to  an  inclination  for  triviality,  and  had  upset  his  mind 
with  absurd  and  futile  dreams.  By  a  natural  reaction  he 
recovered  his  balance,  and  with  his  normal  sense  came  clear 
reasoning,  discerning  logic,  which  penetrated  and  explained 

5—2 


68  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

what  had  been  obscure  before.  He  now  understood  what  all 
these  furnished  houses  were,  these  furnished  apartments,  these 
furnished  rooms,  which  have  their  being  and  flourish  all  over 
Rome,  vegetating  almost  abundantly  enough  to  stifle  it ;  and 
the  meaning  dawned  upon  him  of  all  this  strange  mixture  of 
middle-class  females,  of  tailoresses,  porteresses,  servants,  and 
shopkeepers,  who  find  the  letting  of  rooms  the  easiest  and 
surest  profit ;  and  he  saw  'twixt  the  seeker  for  rooms  and  all 
these  women  the  compulsory  association,  the  communication 
of  doors  open  or  closed,  the  half-cohabitation,  the  meetings  in 
the  morning,  at  night,  at  dangerous  hours  of  the  daytime — a 
female  control  beginning  in  the  house,  extending  to  the 
laundry,  then  to  the  clothes,  then  to  the  books,  then  to  the 
letters  of  the  tenants,  and  at  length  by  devious  ways  reaching 
himself.  He  felt  how  much  there  was  of  the  dramatic,  of  the 
comical,  of  passion,  and  of  vice,  in  all  this  system  of  *  free 
entrance,'  of  apartments  with  two  doors,  of  courtyards  with  two 
openings,  of  locks  with  double  springs,  in  all  this  doubling, 
in  this  phantasmagoria  of  closed  doors,  of  clashing  bolts,  of 
bells  that  did  not  ring,  of  female  shoes  that  did  not  creak,  of 
close  women's  veils  and  hermetically-sealed  cloaks.  And  the 
great  equivocacy  of  Roman  life,  so  decorous  and  impassive  in 
appearance,  so  restless,  passionate,  burning  in  reality,  was  now 
manifest  to  him — in  one  of  its  aspects. 

And  in  his  vague,  instinctive  dread  of  this  female  omni- 
presence and  omniprevalence,  in  his  fierce  thirst  for  solitude 
and  independence,  he  took  the  lodgings  in  the  Via  Angelo 
Custode,  where  there  were  no  women. 


CHAPTER  V 

Another  walk  from  the  corner  of  the  Piazza  Sciarra  to  the 
Piazza  San  Carlo,  all  the  way  by  the  Corso — the  Corso  on  a 
festal  day,  with  all  the  shops  shut  and  the  street  empty  between 
the  unfrequented  hours  of  two  and  three,  on  a  winter's  after- 
noon. In  the  Piazza  Colonna,  Ronzi  and  Singer,  pastrycooks, 
were  open,  but  not  a  soul  was  in  the  shop.  In  the  window 
but  a  few  boxes  of  sweetmeats  were  left,  and  the  glass  show- 
cases on  the  marble  counter  were  depleted  of  pastry.  The 
newspaper  kiosk  by  the  fountain  was  closed.  From  Monte- 
citorio  a  broad  ray  of  pale  sunlight  fell  on  the  front  of  the 
Chigi  Palace ;  an  occasional  hackney  coach  turned  in  from  the 
Via  Berghmaschi,  grazed  the  dark  Antonine  Column,  and 
slowly  wandered  into  the  Via  di  Cacciabove.  Through  its 
closed  glass  doors  one  might  look  into  the  Parliament  cafe, 
low-vaulted  and  dingy,  like  a  dark,  shadowy  crypt ;  there  was 
no  one  inside.  Opposite  Morteo's,  the  liquor-seller's,  two  very 
young  journalists  were  gossiping,  their  hands  in  their  pockets, 
yawning,  and  bearing  the  expression  of  persons  mortally  bored. 
Four  or  five  other  youths  were  drinking  vermouth  behind  the 
spacious  windows  of  the  Aragno  caf^,  and  were  reading  a  sheaf 
of  pink  papers — an  obscure  literary  journal.  And  then  there 
was  the  whole  length  of  the  Corso,  with  a  few  rare  pedestrians 


JO  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

and  a  few  gentlemen,  who,  after  issuing  from  their  houses, 
immediately  entered  their  closed  carriages,  which  shot  off  like 
arrows.  A  mild  winter  sirocco  tempered  and  enlanguored  the 
air ;  on  that  Friday,  on  that  Christmas  Day,  at  that  afternoon 
hour,  the  life  of  Rome  seemed  suddenly  suspended.  The 
whole  of  that  central  district  of  the  city,  that  stretch  of  the 
Corso  which  is  always  feverishly  astir,  with  its  four  squares,  the 
Sciarra,  the  Montecitorio,  the  Colonna,  and  the  San  Carlo, 
with  its  overflowing  cafds,  its  handsome  shops,  its  crowded 
pavements — it  all  seemed  plunged  into  a  sudden  stupor  on 
that  happy,  holy  day,  in  that  balmy  weather.  In  his  contact 
with  the  feverish,  workaday  world,  Sangiorgio  felt  the  strange 
excitement  of  it  without  participating  in  its  activity.  And  now 
this  emptiness,  this  drowsiness,  this  peaceful  Christmas — which 
in  the  smallest  provincial  village  is  celebrated  with  gleeful 
shouts  and  discharges  of  gunpowder — had  filled  him  with 
amazement,  as  many  things  had  in  this  wonderful  Rome, 
always  so  new,  always  so  surprising.  He  had  been  walking 
back  and  forth  for  an  hour  after  his  mid-day  meal,  subsequent 
to  perusing  the  three  or  four  newspapers  published  in  the 
morning,  which  ^chiefly  contained  sentimental  Christmas 
rhapsodies ;  he  had  met  no  one,  not  even  a  familiar  face — for 
friends  he  had  none — not  even  any  of  the  faces  he  was  wont 
to  meet.  Everyone  who  had  been  able  to  go  away  to  celebrate 
Christmas  in  his  part  of  the  country,  with  his  own  family,  had 
departed — deputies,  senators,  students,  clerks,  and  officials. 
And  all  who  had  remained  apathetically  shut  themselves  up  at 
home  in  their  plebeian  or  aristocratic  way,  since  the  Roman 
neither  seeks  nor  expects  chances.     Francesco  Sangiorgio  had 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  71 

foreseen  that  he  would  be  very  lonely,  isolated,  lost  in  the 
midst  of  a  merry-making,  giddy  throng ;  instead,  Rome,  to  his 
surprise,  had  the  great  solemn  silence  of  a  dead  city. 

Turning  about  for  the  fourth  time,  as  he  was  bitterly  re- 
gretting that  he  had  not  gone  to  spend  Christmas  with  his  old 
parents  in  that  poor,  humble,  and  respectable  Basilicata,  he 
saw  issuing  from  the  Via  Convertite,  into  the  Corso,  a  body 
of  forty  or  fifty  men  marching  in  procession,  with  a  tricoloured 
banner  at  their  head.  In  front  went  four  or  five  men  in  over- 
coats and  low-crowned  hats ;  they  walked  along  very  gravely, 
and  looked  as  though  they  were  measuring  their  steps.  The 
standard-bearer  wore  a  leather  belt  over  his  outside  coat,  with 
a  metal  ring  near  the  buckle  to  steady  the  flag,  while  a  shining, 
tall  silk  hat  was  set  rakishly  over  his  ear.  Then  came  a 
number  of  old  men  in  soft  felt  hats  and  shaggy,  worn  over- 
coats quite  out  of  date.  Some  had  three  medals,  others  four ; 
a  few  stooped ;  one  was  lame,  and  dragged  himself  along 
laboriously  with  the  aid  of  a  stick.  They  were  veterans  who 
had  survived  the  battles  of  1848  and  1849,  A  few  young 
men,  much  under  thirty,  had  joined  them.  At  the  tail  of  the 
procession  came  two  mock  guards,  of  doubtful  physiognomy, 
brown,  shining  skin,  mottled  moustaches,  wearing  jackets  and 
low  hats  set  on  the  side  of  the  head,  and  walking  in  military 
style,  with  bamboo  canes  under  their  armpits.  The  waiters  in 
the  Aragno  caf^  paid  no  heed  whatever  to  the  procession, 
being  accustomed  to  such  sights;  on  the  pavement  a  few 
people  were  standing  still,  in  an  absent-minded  manner.  The 
two  journalists  talked  for  a  moment  in  front  of  Morteo's,  and 
then   one    came  to   a   decision,   separated   from    the  other. 


72  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  went  with  the  veterans  and  the 
rest,  with  the  disdainful  air  of  an  idler. 

Francesco  Sangiorgio  did  not  fall  in  behind  them,  but 
followed  the  procession  along  the  pavement,  and  kept  pace 
with  it.  Some  people  joined  it  on  the  line  of  march,  at  the 
Orfanelli  and  the  Pastini.  At  the  Piazza  Rotonda,  opposite 
the  Pantheon,  where  the  great  King  lay  at  rest,  the  banner 
was  lowered,  the  veterans  baring  their  heads.  The  procession 
then  wended  its  way  through  some  of  the  obscure,  narrow 
streets  of  old  Rome,  stringing,  winding  along  those  lanes 
where  only  four  can  walk  abreast.  And  everywhere  reigned 
the  deep  silence  of  closed  shops,  closed  windows,  deserted 
alleys,  a  great  festal  peace  which  left  the  streets  empty,  which 
kept  all  the  Christmas  rejoicings  within  the  walls  of  the  houses. 
Now  and  then  the  standard  would  waver,  but  quickly  its 
bearer  would  adjust  it  in  the  ring  with  an  energetic  jerk. 

A  brief  halt  was  made  at  the  Sistine  Bridge.  Here  there 
was  some  slight  stir ;  on  both  the  broad  pavements  a  number 
of  people  were  standing,  looking  at  the  river,  which  was  flaxen 
fair  under  the  wan,  wintry  sky ;  carriages  went  by  at  a  trot, 
drawing  up  sharply  at  the  abrupt  curve  of  the  bridge.  All 
about,  at  the  beginning  of  the  Via  Giulia,  towards  the  Piazza 
Farnese,  and  down  below  towards  the  Politeama,  extensive 
building  renovations  were  in  progress — piles  of  stones,  bricks, 
and  masonry,  walls  of  houses  in  course  of  demolition,  little 
white  lakes  of  hardened  lime,  masons'  barrows  handles  up, 
high  wooden  scaffoldings  on  which  advertisements  were  affixed ; 
high  and  low,  right  and  left,  more  demolition ;  and  then  there 
was  part  of  a  street  already  paved,  and  some  of  the  work  begun 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  73 

upon  the  embanking  of  the  Tiber.  The  sirocco  was  driving 
the  clouds  in  the  direction  of  the  Via  Farnesina,  and  the  yellow 
floods  shimmered  gaily.  An  immense  black  raft  split  the  river 
in  two;  it  was  stationary,  for  the  purpose  of  the  work  being 
done,  and  it  looked  like  some  engine  of  war.  Here,  too, 
peace  prevailed,  like  a  cessation  of  life,  like  a  sleep  in  the 
mild  winter  afternoon. 

Sangiorgio  went  on  with  toilsome  step,  and,  raising  himself 
on  his  toes,  saw  the  banner  of  the  company  emerge  into 
Trastevere.  Again  began  the  silent  threading  of  the  lanes  in 
that  remote  suburb  ;  a  few  of  the  populace,  in  holiday  clothes, 
swelled  the  procession,  which  now  consisted  of  about  a 
hundred  persons.  At  the  corner  of  a  little  street,  suddenly, 
under  an  unforeseen  burst  of  light,  they  found  themselves  in  a 
broad  avenue.  At  one  hand,  beyond  a  low  parapet,  lay  Rome ; 
on  the  other  rose  a  green  ridge — the  Janiculum;  halfway 
between  the  Academy  of  Spain  was  visible,  about  which  wound 
the  rising  avenue.  Three  or  four  times  the  company  was 
obliged  to  divide,  to  let  a  carriage  pass  that  was  trotting 
swiftly  up  the  slope,  noiselessly,  on  the  sand;  a  female  face 
would  appear  and  vanish  behind  the  panes.  At  a  certain  point 
in  the  bend  of  the  road,  near  the  Villa  Sciarra,  between  two 
aristocratic  lines  of  flourishing  century  plants  and  young 
poplars,  a  gentleman  who  was  standing  still  called  out : 
'  Honourable  Sangiorgio  !' 

Sangiorgio  started,  turned  round,  and  perceived  the  Honour- 
able Giustini,  a  Tuscan  deputy,  with  whom  he  had  spoken 
three  or  four  times,  as  they  were  neighbours  on  the  last  bench 
of  their  section,  in  the  Right  Centre.     He  went  up  to  him. 


74  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

'Are  you  following  the  procession,  colleague?'  asked 
Giustini  in  a  voice  tinged  with  irony  and  weariness. 

*  Merely  as  an  idler.     And  you  ?' 

*  I  am  watching  it  march,  as  a  spectator.  It  is  much  the 
same  thing.' 

The  Tuscan  pronounced  the  letter  c  very  hard,  and  spoke 
without  looking  his  interlocutor  in  the  face.  He  tossed  his 
head  once  or  twice,  as  if  in  contempt.  They  walked  together 
by  tacit  accord. 

The  Honourable  Giustini  was  neither  lame,  nor  hip-shot, 
nor  deformed,  but  his  legs  draggled,  one  of  his  shoulders  was 
higher  than  the  other,  his  neck  was  shrunk,  like  a  turtle's,  his 
arms  and  hands  dangled  at  his  side  as  if  he  did  not  know  what 
to  do  with  them.  He  had  an  earthy  face,  a  pair  of  light,  pale 
eyes,  and  a  thin,  tawny  beard,  cleft  at  the  chin.  His  make-up 
was  that  of  a  man  completely  worn  out — one  afflicted  with 
physical  and  moral  rickets. 

*  These  processions,'  said  he,  '  these  promenades  with  flags, 
these  wreaths  laid  down  on  stones — they  are  all  the  same.  I 
have  seen  a  thousand  of  them,  and  have  taken  part  in  some. 
When  one  has  been  young  and  has  been  a  law  student,  how 
can  one  help  having  taken  part  in  processions  ?' 

'  I  did,  too,  at  the  University,'  replied  Sangiorgio. 

*  Who  believes  in  such  rubbish  ?'  resumed  the  Honourable 
Giustini,  with  an  energetic  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  '  One  must 
be  twenty  or  sixty — the  ages  at  which  one  is  silly.* 

*  Do  not  speak  against  youth,'  answered  Sangiorgio,  exhibit- 
ing a  faint  smile. 

*Yes,  yes — youth,  love,  death — the  three  things  sung  by 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  75 

Leopardi.  He  really  only  sang  of  two,  but  the  other  stands 
behind  them.  All  Southerners  are  Leopardists,  are  they  not  ? 
Well,  and  what  a  famous  bore  that  Leopardi  is  !  He  had  a 
hump,  and  he  made  it  an  excuse  to  write  verses  and  tire 
people.  I  am  half  humpbacked,  too,  but  I  write  no  verses, 
by  God  !  And  neither  do  I  bore  my  colleagues  in  the  Chamber 
by  making  speeches.' 

'  True,  you  have  not  made  a  speech  since  the  opening  of  the 
session.' 

'And  my  colleagues  have  not  the  good  grace  to  pay  me 
back  in  the  same  coin.  What  a  collection  of  hopeless  babblers, 
what  a  lot  of  superfluous  verbiage,  what  an  amount  of  wasted 
breath !' 

His  respiration  came  slowly  ;  his  dull  glance  filtered  through 
half-closed  lids.  Sangiorgio  listened  and  looked  at  him,  allow- 
ing him  to  talk  without  arguing,  continuing  the  silent  study  of 
men  and  things  he  had  been  pursuing  in  Rome  for  two  months, 
which  was  to  constitute  so  much  of  his  strength.  Walking 
leisurely,  they  had  reached  another  corner  of  the  avenue. 
At  the  square  a  great  panorama  was  now  oifered — another 
view  of  Rome  from  a  semicircular  terrace.  They  were  up  near 
the  Academy  of  Spain.  Opposite  the  great  gate  several 
carriages  were  waiting,  one  of  them  a  Cardinal's  ;  the  beardless 
groom,  without  a  hair  on  his  face,  like  a  priest,  dressed  in 
black,  was  walking  up  and  down.  The  procession  went  on 
upward  towards  the  Acqua  Paola — a  noisy,  singing  fountain. 
The  foot-passengers  stopped  to  watch  it  pass.  A  tall,  lean 
gentleman,  with  a  fair,  grizzled  beard,  standing  by  the  hedge, 
exchanged  greetings  with  the  veterans  as  they  marched  by. 


76  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

*  That  man  would  like  to  believe  in  the  modern  spirit,  and 
cannot,'  again  began  Giustini's  ill-natured  voice.  '  He  is  a 
fine  man,  yes,  he  is,  that  man  over  there  in  the  tall  hat,  Giorgio 
Serra.  A  handsome  type,  too — an  apostle,  a  poet — but 
secretly,  no  doubt,  he  is  full  of  disillusionment.  He  is  a  man 
of  good  faith,  he  is — one  of  the  few  democrats  I  like.  Other- 
wise, in  his  artistic  tastes  he  is  an  aristocrat;  he  loves  the 
people  because  he  has  a  good,  affectionate  heart,  and  cannot 
help  loving  somebody,  although  vulgarity  he  hates.  You  will 
see  him  go  up  to  the  Janiculum  for  the  commemoration,  but 
he  will  not  give  an  address ;  he  is  as  delicate  as  a  woman  in 
some  things.  We  shall  pass  him  in  a  moment ;  he  will  give 
me  a  cool  bow,  since  he  hates  the  Centre  in  the  Chamber. 
And  he  is  right:  nothing  is  more  hateful  than  the  Centre, 
to  which  we  have  the  honour  of  belonging,  honourable 
colleague.' 

'  And  why  do  you  belong  to  it,  Honourable  Giustini  ?' 

'  Oh,  I !'  exclaimed  the  other,  with  a  gesture  denoting  callous 
indifference. 

The  water  was  falling  noisily  into  the  ample  basin  from 
three  spouts ;  two  maid-servants  were  sitting  on  the  edge  and 
talking ;  a  German  priest  was  looking  at  Castel  Sant'  Angelo 
from  a  terrace,  and  at  the  river,  and  at  the  straight  Via 
Longara,  down  below  in  Trastevere,  under  the  Villa  Corsini. 
The  procession  was  moving  into  the  Via  Garibaldi ;  at  the  rear 
went  Giorgio  Serra,  surveying  the  Roman  Campagna  and 
landscape  with  amorous  glances.  The  two  deputies  had 
hastened  their  gait,  but  were  occasionally  obliged  to  stand 
still  because  of  the  fashionable  carriages. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  77 

'  Are  all  these  ladies  going  to  the  commemoration  ?'  asked 
Sangiorgio. 

'  Yes,  they  are,'  sneered  Giustini.  '  But  they  are  not  aware 
there  is  to  be  a  commemoration.  They  are  bound  for  the 
Villa  Pamphily  for  a  drive ;  it  is  Friday  and  the  weather  is 
fine,  and  then,  one  might  add,  there  is  the  great  Roman 
sirocco,  which  takes  away  the  appetite,  creates  a  desire  for 
sleep,  weakens  the  fibres,  and  undermines  the  will.  And,  by 
the  way,  the  women  know  what  to  do  then,  they  do.' 

*  Bah  !'  said  Sangiorgio,  with  a  gesture  of  contempt  for  the 
female  sex.  Giustini  gave  him  a  long  look,  as  if  to  appraise 
him  mentally,  but  asked  him  no  questions.  They  passed  the 
Porta  San  Pancrazio.  The  Via  della  Mura  ran  down,  narrow 
and  crooked,  towards  the  Valle  dell'  Inferno  and  the  Vatican 
on  the  right,  and  the  Villa  Pamphily  on  the  left.  Before  a 
tavern  stood  erect  and  impassive  two  carabineers ;  then  came 
a  road  with  a  hedge  separating  it,  on  the  left,  from  the  open 
country ;  at  the  right  was  a  high,  gray,  crusty  wall.  At  a 
salient  spot  was  a  little,  worm-eaten,  wooden  gate,  on  which 
was  inscribed  the  name  of  the  farm  and  house  behind  the 
wall — •  II  Vascello.'  That  glorious  name  was  enough — super- 
fluous was  the  monument  on  the  wall,  superfluous  were  the  dry 
wreaths  rotted  by  the  rain — the  name  was  enough. 

The  procession  had  formed  a  group  under  the  memorial- 
stone,  leaving  a  free  space  for  the  carriages  rolling  towards 
the  Villa  Pamphily ;  the  carabineers  had  drawn  near.  The  old 
veterans  were  all  gathered  about  the  flag,  and  stood  silent  and 
thoughtful ;  the  deputies  held  somewhat  aloof,  Giustini  with  a 
hideous  grimace  of  boredom,  Sangiorgio  in  an  observing  mood 


78  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

prompted  by  curiosity.  A  workman  climbed  up  a  ladder  lean- 
ing against  the  wall,  took  the  old  wreaths,  threw  them  away, 
brushed  off  the  monument  with  his  elbow,  and  hung  the  fresh 
wreath  upon  it :  he  was  applauded  from  beneath.  From  the 
top  of  the  wall  a  peasant,  the  guardian  of  the  place,  with  one 
of  the  sallow,  melancholy  faces  of  the  Roman  peasantry, 
looked  on  indifferently.  Then  a  man  got  up,  for  the  purpose 
of  making  a  speech,  on  the  seat  of  a  single-horsed  hackney 
coach  standing  by  the  wall.  The  students  greeted  him  with  a 
cheer. 

He  was  a  very  fair,  stout  young  man,  with  little,  languid 
blue  eyes,  with  a  little,  pointed  moustache,  with  hands  white 
and  plump  like  a  woman's,  with  long,  pink  nails  and  a  diamond 
ring  on  his  fourth  finger.  He  was  dressed  in  the  dandified 
fashion  of  a  hairdresser,  had  an  open,  fresh  face,  full  of  the 
joy  of  living,  while  his  eyes  rolled  about  with  sheer  happiness. 
He  waited  for  the  cheering  to  subside  before  he  began  to 
speak,  and  made  a  sign  with  his  hand  for  it  to  cease.  They 
all  crowded  about  him  to  listen — veterans,  students,  workmen, 
carabineers,  and  guards. 

The  young  man,  in  a  thin  but  well-modulated  drawing-room 
tenor  voice,  with  well-calculated  pauses,  turning  about  his 
head  with  the  deliberation  of  a  coquettish  girl,  explained  with 
dignity  why  and  wherefore,  after  the  commemoration  in  April, 
another  was  taking  place  in  December.  And  then  he  at  once 
launched  into  a  description  of  the  siege  of  Rome,  as  though 
he  had  been  present ;  the  veterans  bowed  their  heads  before 
this  elegant  youth — they,  who  had  been  there.  He  had  an 
easy  but  slow  delivery ;  at  one  time  he  seemed  to  warm,  and 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  79 

took  a  fling  at  the  priesthood,  at  the  Vatican,  of  which,  as  he 
leant  against  the  wall  to  his  left,  he  spoke  with  ambiguity,  and 
in  the  manner  of  a  young  actor,  rolling  his  r's.  The  few 
veterans,  abstracted  and  preoccupied,  were  paying  attention 
no  longer,  wrapped  as  they  were  in  memories  of  the  sacred 
hill  where  they  had  fought  for  their  country's  redemption, 
where  their  companions-in-arms  had  fallen  with  contorted 
faces  and  breasts  pierced  by  the  bullets  of  the  Vincennes 
Sharpshooters.  Now  and  then  one  of  them  would  mumble 
a  few  words,  as  he  called  to  mind  some  episode,  his  brow 
bent,  his  hands  pressing  on  the  pommel  of  his  cane. 

'  During  the  night  they  heard  the  Frenchmen  merrily 
chatting  in  their  tents ' 

'  Do  you  remember  Garibaldi's  negro,  who  died  after  his 
shoulder  was  broken  by  a  splinter  from  a  French  bomb  ?' 

*  How  magnificent  Colonel  Manara  was ' 

'  Handsome  and  brave ' 

The  young  man  concluded  by  apostrophizing  the  Seven 
Hills  of  Rome,  with  Roman  history  interlarded.  His  friends, 
the  students,  crowded  still  more  closely  round  the  hackney 
carriage,  shaking  hands  with  him,  applauding  him  with 
acclaim.  And  he  bowed  to  them,  all  affability,  all  smiles, 
lavishing  handshakes,  intermittently  applying  to  his  white  fore- 
head a  tiny  cambric  handkerchief,  bordered  with  black,  scented 
with  hay.  The  working  men  and  the  common  people  re- 
mained unconvinced  and  unmoved,  with  that  sarcastic  Roman 
smile  which  few  things  can  dislodge.     A  voice  was  heard  : 

'  Serra !  Serra  I  Where  is  Serra  ?  Let  Giorgio  Serra 
speak !' 


8o  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

But  Serra  did  not  answer.  Mayhap  he  was  hiding  modestly 
in  the  crowd.  And  the  crowd  began  to  look  about,  as  if 
making  a  choice. 

'  Serra  !  Serra  !'  was  repeated,  the  name  evoking  the  picture 
of  that  fine  head  of  a  poet  and  an  artist. 

Bat  Serra  was  not  there.  Possibly  the  gentle  dreamer, 
whom  all  realities  repelled,  had  made  his  way  back  to  that 
Rome  he  loved  so  well,  or,  more  likely,  skirting  the  big 
hedge  abloom  with  hawthorn  and  wild  roses,  had  betaken  him- 
self to  the  broad,  silent  avenues  of  the  Villa  Pamphily,  to 
resume  his  dear  illusions  amid  the  rural  green,  to  quaflf  them 
again  from  the  inspiring  loveliness  of  Nature. 

'  I  knew  it,'  whispered  Giustini  to  Sangiorgio.  *  I  knew 
Serra  would  disappear.     He  hates  oratory.' 

'  He  is  wrong ;  oratory  is  power,'  replied  Sangiorgio. 

A  second  time  the  Tuscan  deputy  scrutinized  the  deputy 
from  the  South,  with  slight  surprise  betokened  in  his  face. 
These  two  were  not  mutually  attracted  by  esteem,  sympathy, 
or  any  other  interest ;  there  was  nothing  but  the  curiosity,  the 
desire  to  know  each  other  mixed  with  a  sense  of  diffidence,  of 
two  adepts  at  fencing  who  place  themselves  in  guard  and  are 
unwilling  to  hazard  an  open  assault.  All  round  them  the 
crowd  was  slowly  dispersing  ;  the  standard-bearer  had  departed, 
the  veterans  had  disbanded,  and  were  wending  their  down- 
ward way  in  groups  of  two  and  three,  with  stooping  backs  in 
rough  overcoats,  and  legs  somewhat  uncertain.  Occasionally 
one  of  them  would  stop  to  give  a  last  look  at  the  Vascello. 

The  youthful  orator  had  descended  from  the  carriage  with  a 
jump,  and  had  joined  his  student  friends ;  he  had  picked  a 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  8i 

rose  from  the  hedge,  and  put  it  in  his  buttonhole;  starting 
towards  Rome  with  four  or  five  others  in  a  row,  he  held  his 
black  whalebone  stick  under  his  arm,  while  he  daintily  drew 
on  a  glove.  A  number  of  the  workmen  had  repaired  to  the 
tavern,  and,  seated  about  a  rude  table  on  a  platform,  were 
drinking  that  light,  yellow  wine  which  savours  of  sulphur. 
Ten  minutes  had  elapsed,  and  not  a  soul  remained  under  the 
monument  to  the  victims  of  1848  ;  in  its  solitariness  the 
Vascello  preserved  its  appearance  of  a  house  dismantled  with 
only  its  walls  left  standing.  On  the  high  wall  enclosing  the 
farm  the  peasant  was  left  alone  :  with  his  head  leaning  on  his 
closed  fist  he  was  impassively  looking  down. 

The  two  deputies  had  come  down  to  the  little  open  space 
near  the  great  fountain  of  Paul  III.,  and  were  progressing 
slowly.  A  suspicion  of  crepuscular  dampness  was  filtering 
through  the  breeze,  or  rather  the  tepid  breeze  of  daytime  was 
changing  into  the  moist  breeze  which  invades  the  city  at  night- 
fall. The  fashionable  carriages  were  descending  from  the 
Villa  Pamphily,  and  driving  towards  Rome.  Leaning  on  the 
parapet  of  the  terrace  which  overlooks  the  town,  the  two 
members  of  Parliament  glanced  at  the  passing  carriages.  Two 
or  three  times  Giustini  bowed  abruptly  and  curtly,  like  a  man 
little  given  to  gallantry,  and  soon  after  said  as  if  soliloquizing : 

'  The  Baldassarri,  a  Bolognese  Countess — handsome  woman 
— wife  of  an  old  senator.  She  is  a  lunatic  I  no  longer  visit — 
has  a  mania  for  poets.  She  always  has  a  varied  collection  of 
them,  one  a  barbarian,  another  a  sentimentalist,  another  a 
naturalist.  Those  who  write  sonnets  for  weddings  are  received 
with  a  certain  degree  of  favour.     She  is  the  woman  about 

6 


82  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

whom  the  most  verses  and  the  most  insinuations  are  made. 
Over  there  is  the  Gagliarda,  a  Baroness,  stupid,  commonplace, 
underhanded,  and  bad.  She  is  always  secretly  planning  to 
upset  the  Ministry.  After  it  has  fallen,  through  some  other 
agency,  she  wears  a  triumphant  look.  She  is  so  cruel  that  she 
visits  the  Ministers'  wives  the  day  their  husbands  have  been 
defeated.  Otherwise  she  pushes  young  deputies  forward,  or 
thinks  she  does.  Deluded  unfortunates  pay  court  to  her  ;  she 
is  an  important  woman.  In  her  drawing-room  the  tea  is 
insipid,  but  the  gossip  is  spicy.' 

'  Do  you  go  there  ?' 

'  No,  not  now.  Do  I  look  like  a  young  deputy  ? — Ah,  there 
is  His  Excellency's  wife  !' 

Both  men  bowed  profoundly.  The  lady  responded  serenely 
and  gently  by  an  inclination  of  the  head  behind  the  carriage 
window.  Sangiorgio  said  nothing,  but  with  slight  inward 
trepidation  awaited  and  feared  a  sarcastic  remark  from  Tullio 
Giustini. 

'  Fine  woman.  His  Excellency's  wife,'  muttered  the  Tuscan 
deputy — *  too  beautiful  and  too  young  for  him  !  Nevertheless, 
she  is  faithful  to  him ;  nobody  knows  why.  Her  women  friends 
hate  her  cordially,  but  it  is  the  fashion  to  be  her  admirer.' 

'  Do  you  go  there  ?'  asked  Sangiorgio. 

*  No,  I  am  too  Ministerial.' 

*  What  does  that  matter  ?' 

'  What  should  I  be  doing  there  ?  I  am  a  convert,  and  none 
but  the  doubtful  are  noticed.  And  then  I  should  join  the 
Opposition  if  I  frequented  that  house.  It  rouses  my  ire  too 
much  to  see  a  lean,  withered  husband,  cross-grained  and 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  83 

irritable  through  his  political  life,  appropriate  a  young  wife ; 
and  then — and  then — Donna  Angelica  is  too  kind  :  she  would 
spoil  me.' 

*  Donna  Angelica  ?'  repeated  Sangiorgio  beneath  his  breath. 

But  Giustini  did  not  hear  him.  He  had  taken  his  hat  off 
again  to  a  brougham  that  passed.  This  time  the  carriage 
stopped  ;  a  slender  hand  gloved  in  black  let  down  the  window, 
and  beckoned  to  the  Tuscan  deputy.  Sangiorgio  remained 
alone  in  contemplation  of  his  companion,  who,  with  his  body 
leaning  against  the  door  and  his  head  inside  the  carriage, 
seemed  to  be  indulging  in  a  chat.  In  a  little  while  Giustini 
came  back  to  Sangiorgio,  and  said  to  him  : 

'  Come,  I  will  present  you  to  the  Countess  Fiammanti.' 

Sangiorgio  had  no  time  to  demur  or  even  to  reply ;  he  at 
once  found  himself  beside  the  carriage. 

'  Countess,  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio,  member  for  Tito,  a 
Southerner  and  a  newcomer.' 

The  Countess's  fine  gray  eyes  lit  up  mischievously  ;  her 
mobile  mouth  stretched  to  a  smile. 

'  I  asked  Giustini  to  present  you,  after  hearing  you  were  from 
the  South.  How  unpleasant  Rome  must  seem  to  you,  Honour- 
able !  Oh,  Naples  is  so  lovely,  I  adore  it !  My  husband  was 
a  Neapolitan.  From  him  I  learned  to  love  Naples  and  every- 
thing there.  How  smooth  the  speech  is,  and  how  agreeable 
compared  to  the  ugly  Tuscan  accent,  Giustini !' 

'  Is  that  the  reason,  Countess,  that  you  never  let  me  speak 
when  I  begin  to ' 

'  Make  love  to  me  ?  No,  my  dear  Giustini,  I  like  you  too 
well  to  let  you.     Love  is   an   old,  played-out   farce,  which 

6—2 


84  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

nobody  any  longer  laughs  at.  Honourable  Sangiorgio,  you 
must  think  we  are  very  frivolous,  do  you  not  ?  We  know  how 
to  be  serious,  for  example,  when  Giustini  tells  me  about  politics. 
I  am  greatly  interested  in  politics;  they  amuse  me.  And 
you?' 

*  They  are  the  only  thing  that  interest  me,'  said  Sangiorgio 
rather  rudely. 

'  Oh,  they  amuse  me  so  much !'  exclaimed  the  lady,  with- 
out showing  that  she  had  noticed  his  discourtesy. 

'  To  get  amusement  from  a  thing,  one  must  not  be  too  much 
in  love  with  it,'  murmured  Sangiorgio,  but  with  so  much  ex- 
pression that  the  handsome  Countess,  who  emitted  a  strong 
odour  of  violets,  rested  her  eyes  upon  him  for  a  moment. 

'  Well  then,  Giustini,  in  a  few  hours — is  it  agreed  ? 
Honourable  Sangiorgio,  I  am  at  home  every  odd  evening,  the 
third,  the  fifth,  the  seventh,  and  so  on.  I  will  not  force  you 
to  drink  tea.  I  allow  smoking.  I  sing  passably.  No  other 
women  come.  Au  revoir,  gentlemen  !'  and  hardly  had  they 
moved  on  when  the  carriage  was  speeding  in  the  direction  of 
Rome. 

*  Who  is  that  lady  ?'  Sangiorgio  inquired. 

*  Why  does  that  concern  you  ?     Do  you  not  like  her  ?' 
'  Yes,  I  like  her.' 

'  Well — go  there  this  evening ;  you  will  enjoy  yourself.  She 
is  fascinating,  not  beautiful.  Some  evenings  she  is  irresistible. 
She  sings  excellently.  At  times,  though  not  often,  she  is 
witty.     She  talks  too  much.     But  she  is  a  good  girl.' 

*  What  sort  of  woman  is  she  ?'  persisted  Sangiorgio. 

'How  can  I  tell?'    And  Giustini  shrugged  his  shoulders. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  85 

'  I  have  not  succeeded  in  becoming  her  lover.     Perhaps  that 
might  depend  on  one's  accent.' 
'  And  her  name  is ' 

*  Donna  Elena  Fiammanti.' 

They  had  arrived  at  the  square  in  front  of  the  Academy  of 
Spain,  deserted  in  the  rapidly  darkening  winter's  evening. 

'Look  at  Rome  !'  said  Giustini,  now  at  the  parapet  of  the 
terrace.     *  Have  you  ever  seen  it  all  at  once,  like  this  ?' 

*  No,  never.' 

'  Rome  is  great,  very  great,'  whispered  the  Tuscan  deputy, 
with  a  strain  of  melancholy  in  his  voice. 

*It  looks  asleep,'  rejoined  Sangiorgio,  also  in  a  whisper,  as 
though  he  were  talking  in  a  church. 

'  Asleep  ?  Do  not  believe  that.  She  is  not  asleep ;  she  is 
only  keeping  silent,  and  watching,  and  thinking.  Look  down 
there,  far  in  the  distance,  at  that  large,  light  dome  against  the 
sky.  It  is  St.  Peter's.  Have  you  ever  seen  it  ?  Very  well — 
it  is  a  huge,  empty,  useless  church,  is  it  not  ?  About  St.  Peter's 
is  a  large  cluster  of  buildings  standing  out  from  the  green  of 
the  gardens.  They  seem  small  from  here  do  those  buildings, 
and  wrapped  in  deep  slumber.  All  that  is  the  Vatican,  and 
inside  is  the  Pope.  He  is  seventy  years  old,  frail,  an  invalid. 
Death  is  at  his  pillow,  but  what  does  that  matter?  He  is 
strong.  How  many  believe  in  him,  stretch  out  their  hands  to 
him,  bow  down  before  him,  pray  in  his  name,  die  in  his  name  ! 
We  triumphantly  count  our  array  of  atheists  and  sceptics. 
Who  can  count  the  believers  ?  Are  you  a  believer.  Honour- 
able ?' 

♦No.' 


86  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

'  Nor  I.  But  the  Pope  is  strong.  He  has  on  his  side  the 
unfortunate,  the  weak,  the  humble,  the  young  people,  the 
women — the  women  who  from  mother  to  daughter  transmit, 
not  religion,  but  its  forms.  You  think  all  is  asleep  down  there 
by  the  river -bank,  in  the  great  palace  painted  by  Michel 
Angelo  ?  That  is  the  Vatican  ;  it  is  a  vast  idea,  in  whose 
service  and  under  whose  authority  is  a  population  of  Cardinals, 
Bishops,  parish-priests,  curates,  monks,  friars,  seminarists,  and 
clericals  who  do  not  confine  themselves  to  praying,  holding 
services,  and  singing  :  they  may  be  found  in  the  houses,  they 
reach  the  families,  they  teach  in  the  schools — yes,  and  they 
love,  hate,  enjoy,  live,  for  themselves  and  their  own  interests, 
for  the  Church  and  for  the  Pope.  Who  can  measure  their 
strength,  their  influence,  their  potency  ?' 

'  Rome  does  not  believe,'  interposed  Sangiorgio. 

*  I  am  not  talking  of  faith.  Am  I  a  glorifier  of  religion  ? 
The  old  fables  are  exploded,  but  the  human  interest  survives 
and  multiplies.  We  live  near  all  this  great  ferment,  and  do 
not  see  it.  We  have  our  being  in  the  presence  of  a  gigantic 
mystery  working  in  darkness,  yet  we  do  not  suspect  its 
existence.' 

Giustini  ceased,  again  casting  his  eyes  over  the  vast  panorama 
of  the  city,  which  seemed  drowned  in  the  nebulous  atmosphere 
of  the  sirocco.  Sangiorgio  listened  in  excitement,  with  a  thrill 
of  anxiety  at  his  heart,  as  one  might  at  the  approach  of  danger, 
while  Giustini  continued : 

'There  is  the  Quirinal — the  King,  the  Queen,  the  Court. 
Yes,  down  there,  under  that  rosy  light.  Four  balls,  eight 
official  receptions,  forty  gala  dinners,  twenty  evenings  at  the 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  87 

theatre,  four  concerts,  thirty  inaugurations,  four  hundred  pre- 
sentations, diamonds  at  the  throat,  medals  on  the  chest, 
plumes  in  the  hat,  naked  shoulders, /^/i  defoie  gras,  quadrilles 
of  honour — whoever  thought  it  was  anything  else  ?  But  this 
beautiful  Queen,  who  receives  friend  and  foe,  monarchist  and 
republican,  with  the  same  cordiality,  is  also  a  woman  who 
thinks,  who  feels,  who  knows,  who  listens.  And  this  King, 
harassed  by  such  a  heavy  burden,  dutifully  bound  to  perpetual 
obedience,  is  he  not  a  man,  has  not  he,  too,  a  conscience,  a 
mind,  a  will  ?  And  all  these  Court  people,  officers  and  secre- 
taries, ladies-in-waiting  and  diplomats,  major-domos  and  ser- 
vants, do  you  think  they  do  not  worry,  and  struggle,  and  live  ? 
Do  you  suppose  they  do  nothing  but  make  bows  ?  That  they 
only  know  how  to  walk  in  front  of  the  King  in  a  room  ?  Who 
can  assert  that  ?  Do  they  not  love  and  hate,  and  have  furious 
passions  and  ambitions  ?  Has  not  every  one  of  those  women 
a  desire,  some  envy,  bitter  regrets  ?' 

The  ruthless  man  was  running  his  fingers  nervously  along 
the  top  of  the  parapet,  where  he  found  a  large  piece  of  dried 
lime.  He  broke  off  little  pieces,  and  flipped  them  over  the 
green  bank.  Francesco  Sangiorgio  followed  with  utmost 
attention  the  action  of  those  thin,  brown  hands,  with  their 
heavy,  swelled  veins. 

*  You  cannot  see  that  cauldron  of  Montecitorio,'  resumed  the 
Tuscan  in  a  harder  tone  of  voice ;  '  it  is  lost  among  the  houses ; 
we  are  lost  in  it — a  furnace  of  waste-paper,  in  which  one  is 
gradually  burnt  up  by  a  desiccating  heat — the  temperature  of 
an  incubator,  which  lulls  to  sleep  all  audacities  and  quickens 
all  timidities,  which  ends  in  scorching  terribly  all  the  waverers, 


88  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

and  which  awakens  a  few  pseudo-ideas  in  the  cranium  of  idiots. 
All  the  inmates  of  that  cardboard  drum  excite  themselves  to 
shrieking,  or  remain  utterly  dumb,  because  of  a  law,  or  a 
regulation,  or  a  railway,  or  a  bridge ;  they  clamour  for  more 
laws,  weighty  and  trivial,  more  railways  of  all  kinds,  more 
bridges  everywhere;  they  want  to  become  Ministers,  wear 
uniforms,  be  deafened  by  the  national  anthem  wherever  they 
arrive  in  the  country,  have  as  natural  enemies  their  early 
friends,  be  branded  thieves  in  the  newspapers,  know  their 
private  letters  are  opened  by  a  too  officious  secretary — and 
other  delights  of  the  same  kind.  Some  poor  wretches  want  to 
be  Secretary-General !  I  was  one  of  them.  Oh,  the  frightful 
furnace,  that  shrivels  men  like  dry  beans,  men  inflamed  by 
furious  desires  and  consumed  in  the  emptiness  of  those  desires !' 

The  heavens,  all  white  at  their  zenith,  now  assumed  a 
delicate  tint  of  gray  on  the  circular  hem  of  the  horizon ;  like 
an  ethereal  veil  the  spirit  of  evening  rose  in  the  air  above  the 
city.  Francesco  Sangiorgio  experienced  a  strange  uneasiness ; 
TuUio  Giustini  at  that  moment  seemed  to  him  more  hideous 
than  ever ;  as  he  laughed  he  displayed  two  rows  of  ugly  yellow 
teeth. 

'  How  quiet  the  city  is !'  he  went  on.  '  It  seems  to  be 
asleep,  enjoying  the  Christmas  festival.  It  seems  to  be,  but 
is  not.  Up  there,  in  the  verdure  of  the  Pincio  and  the  Villa 
Medici,  which  extends  down  to  the  Via  Babuino,  the  painters 
sing,  laugh,  discuss  heresies  as  if  they  were  theories  of  art,  and 
produce  pictures  that  seem  great  absurdities.  But  what  do 
they  care  ?  To  console  themselves  for  their  failure  they  have 
invented  the  word  Philistine,  which  expresses  their  contempt 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  89 

for  the  public.  In  the  whiteness  over  there,  on  the  other  side, 
are  the  new  quarters.  Have  you  ever  been  there?  Seventy 
thousand  people,  in  all  sorts  of  employment,  with  their  families, 
servants,  dogs,  and  cats :  a  concourse  of  savages — unarmed, 
hungry  savages — squatting  up  there,  looking  at  Rome  and 
hating  it  because  they  cannot  understand  it,  and  they  find  it 
exacting  while  their  women  make  children  and  cook,  women 
with  pale  faces,  with  flat  breasts,  and  red  hands.  They  have 
been  celebrating  Christmas  in  their  prisons,  venting  their 
spleen  against  the  Government,  their  servants,  Rome,  and  the 
butcher,  like  real,  miserable,  stupid  savages.  And  the  Romans 
— the  true  Romans — of  the  Regola  and  the  Popolo,  of  the 
Monti  district  and  the  Trevi  district,  who  add  the  adjective 
Roman  to  their  name  like  a  title  of  nobility,  who  eat  dump- 
lings on  Thursdays,  tripe  on  Sundays,  and  lamb  at  all  times, 
who  like  white  wine  and  the  fireworks  at  Sant'  Angelo,  who 
are  proud  of  their  March  water,  and  calmly  allow  the  beetles 
to  swarm  in  their  old  houses,  the  sceptical,  clever,  impassive, 
and  industrious  Romans,  who  are  good  husbands  and  kind 
lovers,  they  certainly  are  not  asleep.  And  the  women,  Roman 
or  Neapolitan,  Italian  or  foreign,  who  go  for  walks,  stand  at 
the  window,  argue,  laugh,  kiss  when  they  love,  and  are  kissed 
when  loved,  they  are  not  asleep — no,  the  women  never  sleep, 
not  even  at  night.  Oh,  Rome  is  so  alert,  though  it  seems 
stagnant;  it  is  so  great,  so  complicated,  so  delicate  in  its 
mechanism,  so  powerful  on  its  steel  springs,  that  when  I  bend 
over  to  look  at  it,  from  up  here,  it  frightens  me,  like  an  infernal 
machine.' 

In  the  spreading  twilight  Francesco  Sangiorgio,  deadly  pale. 


90  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

bent  down  to  look  also,  as  though  to  discover  the  mysterious 
machinery  of  Rome. 

'  And  what  is  the  dream  of  those  who  come  here  ?'  con- 
tinued TuUio  Giustini,  with  a  short,  sardonic  laugh.  'You 
believe  that  you  are  awaited  with  the  amorous  serenity  of  a 
great  city,  because  you  are  young,  and  you  have  talents,  and 
you  wish  to  work,  and  not  be  unworthy  of  the  noble  city.  I, 
too,  came  thus,  and  I  thought  the  first  Roman  citizen  must 
needs  embrace  me.  Instead,  after  three  or  four  years  of 
fretting,  of  internal  torments,  and  of  huge  delusions,  I  learned 
a  few  things  :  that  I  was  too  frank  to  succeed  in  politics,  that 
I  was  too  rough  to  please  the  women,  that  I  was  too  sickly 
to  do  scientific  work,  that  I  was  too  brittle  to  succeed  in 
diplomacy.  This  I  learned,  and  from  this,  a  fact  as  glaring  as 
the  sun,  as  terrible  as  truth  itself — Rome  gives  herself  up  to 
no  one  !' 

'  And  what  must  one  do  ?'  asked  Francesco  Sangiorgio,  half 
trembling. 

'  Conquer  her  !' 

TuUio  Giustini  made  a  sweeping  gesture  towards  the  city 
with  his  skinny  hand. 

*  Conquer  her  !  Woe  to  the  commonplace,  woe  to  the 
cowards,  woe  to  the  weak,  like  myself !  This  city  does  not 
expect  you,  and  does  not  fear  you ;  it  gives  you  no  welcome, 
does  not  reject  you ;  it  does  not  oppose  you,  and  disdains  to 
accept  a  challenge.  Its  strength,  its  power,  its  loftiness,  is 
lodged  in  an  almost  divine  attribute — indifference.  You  may 
make  a  stir — howl,  rave,  set  fire  to  your  house  and  your  books, 
and  dance  on  the  ruins — Rome  will  take  no  note  of  it.     It  is 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  91 

the  city  to  which  all  have  come,  and  where  all  have  fallen  : 
why  should  it  be  concerned  with  you,  an  infinitesimal  atom, 
passing  across  the  scene  so  quickly?  It  is  indifferent;  it  is 
the  great  cosmopolitan  city  which  has  this  universal  character, 
which  knows  everything  because  it  has  seen  everything.  Indif- 
ference is  the  equivalent  of  the  unchangeably  serene,  the 
deaf  soul,  the  woman  who  knoivs  not  ho7v  to  love.  Indifference 
is  the  moral  mid-winter  sirocco,  the  tepid,  uniform  temperature 
which  debilitates  the  nervous  system,  and  saps  the  will-power, 
and  causes  tremendous  internal  revolutions  and  tremendous 
dejections.  Yet  someone  must  come  to  disturb  that  serenity, 
to  vanquish  that  indifference.  Someone  must  conquer  Rome, 
whether  for  ten  years,  for  one  year,  for  one  month  ;  but  he 
must  conquer  it,  must  capture  it,  must  avenge  all  the  dead,  all 
the  fallen,  all  the  feeble  who  have  touched  its  walls  without 
being  able  to  overcome  it.  But,  ah  !  such  a  one  must  have  a 
heart  of  brass,  an  inflexible,  rigid  will;  he  must  be  young, 
healthy,  robust,  and  bold,  without  ties  and  without  weaknesses  ; 
he  must  apply  himself  profoundly,  intensely  to  that  one  idea 
of  victory.  But  who  is  to  conquer  her,  this  proud  Rome  ?' 
'  I  will !'  said  Francesco  Sangiorgio. 


P  A  R  T     I  I 

CHAPTER  I 

The  Minister  had  been  speaking  for  an  hour.  He  was  no 
orator :  he  lacked  fire  and  polish.  Rather  was  he  a  modest 
speaker,  one  who  did  not  strive  after  effects  in  political 
eloquence,  and  who  said  things  concisely,  in  the  logical, 
mathematical  order  in  which  they  presented  themselves  to  a 
square,  solid  brain.  The  discourse,  as  was  natural,  bristled 
with  figures,  was  an  interminable  procession  of  numbers.  He 
uttered  them  with  a  certain  deliberation,  as  if  he  wanted  them 
weighed  by  friends  and  foes.  His  voice  was  too  gentle,  too 
familiar,  perhaps,  but  was  plainly  audible  in  the  silence.  He 
might  have  been  taking  part  in  a  Cabinet  Council ;  the  Parlia- 
mentary pitch  of  voice  was  altogether  absent.  The  Minister 
stopped  occasionally  to  wipe  his  nose  on  a  large  silk  handker- 
chief, checked  in  red  and  black.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  in  that 
short,  stout  little  person  plainly  dressed  in  black,  in  that  placid 
face,  shaved  on  the  lips  and  chin,  but  flanked  with  whiskers  at 
the  side  in  English  fashion,  in  those  plump,  white  hands,  in 
the  whole  atmosphere  of  repose  and  thoughtfulness  which  he 
exhaled,  one  might  divine  the  indefatigable  workman  of  the 
study,  the  man  who  spent  twelve  hours  a  day  at  the  Ministerial 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  93 

offices,  behind  a  desk  covered  with  documents — writing, 
reading,  verifying  registers,  advising  with  heads  of  departments, 
with  general  directors.  Thus,  the  Minister,  the  man  of  medi- 
tation, seemed  out  of  place  in  debate  with  the  members ;  and 
in  announcing  the  most  important  facts,  in  rendering  matters 
exact  and  profound,  he  spoke  with  the  easy  simplicity  of  a 
scientist  setting  forth  his  vast  learning  in  popular  language. 

The  Chamber  sat  still  out  of  respect,  but  as  a  fact  the 
members  were  inattentive.  They  were  so  sure  of  him  and  his 
adherents  !  He  was  strong,  he  was  such  an  iron,  massive, 
luminous  tower  of  strength  that  the  anger  of  political  slander 
or  debate  left  him  unmoved.  His  very  adversaries  admitted 
his  power,  and  thus  contributed  to  render  his  triumphs  all  the 
more  sweeping.  By  listening  to  him  intently  one  might 
succeed  in  understanding  how  he  stood  outside  the  political 
passion,  and  was  all  absorbed  in  his  love  of  finance. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  hall  conduced  to  a  certain  vague, 
inactive  contemplativeness.  While  out  of  doors — it  being  the 
middle  of  January — a  dry,  whistling,  cutting  north  wind  was 
blowing,  as  was  wont  to  happen  on  one  of  the  three  cold  days  of 
a  Roman  winter,  inside  the  hall  the  stoves  sent  out  a  perpetual 
stream  of  heat.  Tightly  closed,  without  windows,  with  gallery 
doors  rarely  opening — doors  that  shut  quickly,  noiselessly, 
as  though  hinged  on  velvet — with  the  matting  that  deadened 
every  footstep,  the  hall  suggested  physical  comfort.  Neverthe- 
less, the  Speaker,  a  fine  man  of  fifty,  with  swarthy  face  and  hair 
still  black  as  jet,  had  his  legs  covered  with  a  blue  velvet  wrap 
lined  with  fur ;  and  as  he  listened  to  the  Minister,  he  would 
cast  an  occasional  glance  at  the  galleries,  possibly  seeking 


94  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

out  someone.  The  secretaries  sat  motionless  to  his  right  and 
left.  Falucci,  the  Abruzzan,  tall  and  muscular,  with  a  curly, 
slightly  grizzled  mane,  was  whispering  frequent  sentences  to 
handsome  Sangarzia,  who  nodded  without  answering,  accus- 
tomed as  he  was  to  protracted,  patient  silence ;  Varrini,  the 
agreeable  and  intelligent  Calabrian,  with  the  muzzle  of  a 
sagacious  mouse,  with  the  refinement  of  a  young  lady  covering 
the  power  of  a  champion,  was  writing  letters ;  and  Bulgaro, 
the  Neapolitan,  was  making  the  seat  creak  which  bore  his 
enormous  frame,  his  embrowned  visage  showing  traces  of  an 
almost  childish  fretfulness.  There  was  not,  as  on  other  days 
of  minor  debates,  a  string  of  deputies  coming  to  chat  with  the 
Speaker  on  his  bench,  exchanging  jokes  with  the  secretaries, 
and  going  down  on  the  other  side,  after  which  there  might  be  a 
stroll  outside,  a  moment's  prattle  at  intervals  in  the  room  of 
the  Lost  Footsteps,  in  which  fashion  the  sitting  went  by.  For 
to-day  the  Minister  was  expounding  a  very  serious  question ; 
both  Ministerialists  and  Opposition  must  listen. 

The  Right,  nearly  all  of  them  old  members  of  eight  Parlia- 
ments, heard  without  paying  attention,  knowing  their  opponent 
to  be  invincible,  and  thus  they  bore  the  air  of  veterans,  faithful 
at  their  posts,  neither  suffering  nor  enjoying.  The  Extreme 
Left  paid  no  heed  whatever,  but  did  not  disturb  the  speech ; 
that  party  disdained  questions  of  the  economic-administrative 
order,  having  made  no  study  of  finance,  and  now  awaited  some 
political  argument,  which  would  be  an  opportunity  to  stir  up  a 
little  excitement.  One  of  the  small  phalanx  of  Hubertists 
was  asleep,  his  face  politely  covered  by  his  hands ;  another 
deputy,  Gagliardi,  was  sleeping  without  attempt  at  conceal- 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  95 

ment.  Only  on  one  of  the  Centrist  benches  was  any  sincere 
attention  paid,  like  that  of  eager  scholars  to  their  master's 
explanations.  Of  these  deputies  there  were  four — young, 
clever,  and  aspiring.  Seymour,  of  English  descent,  dark, 
myopic,  and  well-mannered,  was  taking  notes  on  paper ;  beside 
him  was  Marchetti,  with  the  Nazarene  beard ;  Gerini,  a  taciturn 
Florentine,  with  long,  fair,  flowing  beard,  was  passing  memo- 
randa to  Joanna,  the  Southerner  of  the  handsome,  thoughtful, 
studious  head.  But  the  whole  Chamber,  Speaker,  secretaries, 
committee-men,  members,  were  under  the  soft  influence  of 
that  warm  air,  that  closed  place,  that  silence  broken  only  by 
the  tranquil  voice  of  the  Minister. 

The  galleries  were  crowded — a  strange  circumstance  on  a 
day  given  up  to  financial  discussion.  But  no  doubt  the  cold 
had  driven  in  from  the  streets  those  ladies  sitting  upstairs  with 
their  capes  open,  their  hands  stuffed  into  their  muff's,  their 
faces  pink  from  the  warmth  of  the  hall.  They  were  quite 
happy  to  remain  there,  though  they  understood  not  a  word ; 
the  voice  of  the  speaker  fell  on  their  ears  like  a  hum,  while 
they  shivered  at  the  thought  of  returning  out  of  doors,  where 
the  north  wind  was  blowing,  making  one's  eyes  water  and  one's 
nose  turn  red.  The  public  gallery,  too,  was  full  of  people : 
pale,  jaded  faces  of  do-nothings,  wretched  figures  of  petitioners 
who  had  spent  the  day  in  looking  for  a  cousin  of  a  deputy's 
friend,  and  who  at  last,  demoralized  and  trembling  with  cold, 
had  come  to  finish  in  the  Chamber,  in  the  public  gallery, 
where  they  listened  without  a  wink.  The  long  press  gallery 
was  also  more  crowded  than  usual,  and  the  occupants  of  the 
first  row  were  pretending  to  write  a  summary  of  the  pro- 


96  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

ceedings.  But  one  was  inditing  a  letter,  another  a  theatrical 
article,  another  was  sketching  a  fantastic  profile  of  Depretis, 
and  another  still  was  practising  the  art  of  calligraphy,  writing 
his  own  name  with  large  flourishes.  The  Opposition  journalists 
had  already  prepared  a  mild,  platonic  attack,  the  Government 
writers  having  extolled  the  Minister's  financial  report  for  the 
last  ten  days ;  all  of  them  were  quite  unruffled.  Only  Gennaro 
Casale,  in  the  Government's  employ,  a  violent  Neapolitan 
journalist,  and  an  enemy  of  all  Governments  whatsoever,  grew 
excited,  and  exclaimed  from  the  rear  of  the  gallery  : 

*  Gentlemen,  this  balancing  is  a  Ministerial  shuffle  !' 

Up  in  the  diplomatic  gallery,  leaning  against  the  blue  velvet 
balustrade,  was  to  be  seen  the  slender  figure  of  the  Countess 
Beatrice  di  Santaninfa,  with  the  large,  deep,  soft  eyes,  who 
was  not  listening,  but  was  absorbed  in  thought. 

When,  at  half-past  four,  the  Minister  had  ended  his  speech, 
members  old  and  young  nodded  their  heads  in  a  general  rustle 
of  approval  and  admiration.  He  restored  his  papers  to  his  big 
portfolio  without  a  tremor  in  his  fingers,  without  a  shade  of 
colour  changing  in  his  countenance.  Then  a  group  of  friends, 
ardent  and  lukewarm,  gathered  about  him  to  shake  hands  with 
him  and  congratulate  him.  Even  an  ex-Minister  of  Finance 
came  down  from  the  benches  of  the  Right  to  compliment  the 
fat  little  Minister  with  the  hard  head.  Some  disorder  occurred, 
and  a  little  noise.  Then  the  voice  of  the  Speaker  was  heard, 
sonorous  and  distinct : 

*  Honourable  colleagues,  I  beg  for  silence.  The  Honour- 
able Sangiorgio  has  the  floor.' 

*  Who  ?    Who  ?'  was  the  universal  inquiry. 


The  conquest  of  Rome  97 

And  again  the  Speaker  was  heard  : 

*  I  beg  for  silence.  The  Honourable  Sangiorgio  has  the 
privilege  of  speaking.' 

Hereupon  the  curious  eyes  of  the  members  sought  out  that 
colleague  of  theirs,  whom  scarcely  anyone  knew.  He  was  up 
there,  on  the  last  bench  of  a  section,  with  the  Right  Centre. 
He  was  standing  erect  and  calm,  waiting  for  his  turn  to  speak. 
And  he  stepped  out  halfway  upon  the  stair  so  as  to  be  seen 
better.  He  was  not  tall,  but  up  there  he  looked  tall,  since  his 
carriage  was  upright  and  he  had  a  robust  figure.  Nor  was  he 
handsome,  but  his  head  bore  all  the  characteristics  of  strength ; 
his  hair  was  planted  rudely  on  a  low  brow,  his  nose  was 
aquiline,  his  moustache  was  dark  and  dense,  his  chin  was  set 
hard  and  full  of  power.  No  one  thought  him  insignificant. 
And  then  divers  speculations  grew  rife  in  the  Chamber. 
Would  this  new  deputy  speak  for  or  against  the  Minister  ? 
Was  he  one  of  those  flatterers  who,  scarcely  arrived,  hastened 
to  make  a  show  of  loyalty  to  the  Government  ?  Or  was  he 
some  little  impudent  nobody  who  would  stammer  through  a 
feeble  attack  before  the  House,  and  be  suppressed  by  the 
ironical  murmurs  of  the  assembly  ?  He  was  a  Southerner  and 
a  lawyer — only  that  was  known  about  him.  Therefore  he 
would  deliver  an  oration,  the  usual  rhetoric  which  the  Pied- 
montese  detested,  the.  Milanese  derided,  and  the  Tuscans 
despised. 

Instead,  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio  began  to  talk  deliberately, 
but  with  such  a  resonant,  commanding  voice  that  it  filled  the 
hall  and  made  the  audience  give  a  sigh  of  relief.  The  ladies, 
whom  the  warmth  had  half  lulled  to  sleep,  revived,  and  the 

7 


9S  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

press  gallery,  empty  since  the  conclusion  of  the  Minister's  dis- 
course, began  to  refill  with  reporters,  returning  to  their  places. 

The  Honourable  Sangiorgio  opened  with  an  exordium  pro- 
claiming respect  for  the  illustrious  person  at  the  head  of  Italy's 
finances,  and  his  eulogy  nowise  partook  of  vulgar  adulation, 
but  was  tendered  in  a  sober  and  restrained  manner.  The 
speaker  alluded  in  passing  to  his  own  youth,  to  the  obscurity 
of  one  who,  tied  down  to  provincial  life,  ever  had  his  eyes 
turned  towards  Rome,  where  the  noble  war  of  politics  was 
constantly  being  waged.  He  extolled  politics,  declaring  them 
greater  than  the  arts,  greater  than  science :  they  embraced  the 
whole  history  of  human  activity,  and  to  him  the  statesman  was 
the  highest  type  of  man,  apostle  and  labourer,  arm  and  head. 

A  loud  Good/  burst  forth  from  the  Right. 

The  Honourable  Sangiorgio  paused  for  a  short  minute,  but 
only  for  a  short  minute.  His  appeal  to  the  sublimity  of  politics 
as  a  kind  of  high  ideal,  which  was  vulgarized  in  the  hands  of 
men,  had  evoked  general  approval,  and  had  given  several 
nonentities  a  sense  of  elation.  The  Minister,  who  from  the 
beginning  had  raised  his  head,  fixing  his  pale  blue  eyes  firmly 
on  the  speaker,  had  now  dropped  it  again  upon  overhearing 
remarks  behind  him  from  men  who  embarrassed  and  annoyed 
him. 

Sangiorgio  went  on  to  say  that  those  youthful  years  in  the 
provinces  were,  however,  not  without  value  to  anyone  who 
sought  to  know  modern  life  in  all  its  sufferings  and  in  all  its 
needs.  The  great  cities  were  all-invading,  all-devouring ;  they 
fed  upon  the  existence  of  others ;  they  exhausted  vigour,  and 
stifled  complaint,  and  threw  the  man  who  lived  there  into  such 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  99 

a  fever  that  he  forgot  all  other  human  interests.  Who  knew 
of  the  distress  of  the  provinces  ?  Who  ever  heard  the  echo  of 
those  dolorous,  humble  sighs,  which  never  could  reach  Rome  ? 
True,  that  a  few  stout  and  good  and  brave  men  on  occasion 
informed  the  Chamber  of  the  grievances  of  all  those  fellow- 
Italians  ;  but  such  voices  were  isolated,  grew  faint,  and  then 
were  silent.  Yet  there  must  not  be  silence ;  the  truth  must  be 
known. 

The  House  was  now  listening  attentively  in  a  less  ironical,  a 
kinder  attitude  of  mind.  It  was  a  natural  reaction  from  the 
strain,  from  the  difficulty  of  comprehension  which  the  preced- 
ing speech  by  the  Minister  had  offered.  After  a  painful 
tension  of  two  hours  and  a  half  in  following  a  fantastic  whirl 
of  figures,  this  easy  eloquence  relieved  the  oppressed  spirits. 
And  now,  in  that  hour  of  dusk,  so  cold  and  dark  outside,  so 
gratefully  warm  and  bright  in  the  hall,  the  members  yielded  to 
a  sentimental  mood,  to  a  feeling  of  sympathy  and  benevolence 
— what  were  these  wrongs  of  the  provinces,  then  ? 

Sangiorgio  continued,  saying  that  all  the  sad  experience  of 
his  youth  among  the  peasants  had  rebelled  at  a  seemingly 
innocent  proposal  of  the  Minister's.  The  Minister  had  stated 
that,  being  obliged  to  give  his  colleague  of  the  War  Depart- 
ment several  millions,  there  was  necessity  for  further  econo- 
mizing. Very  good ;  economy  was  the  strength  of  young 
nations.  But  instead  the  Minister  had  asked  for  a  slight 
increase  of  the  salt  tax.  Sangiorgio  fully  appreciated,  he 
declared,  the  reasons  of  State  which  compelled  the  Minister  to 
ask  for  that  rise  in  taxation,  but  those  few  centesimi  represented 
a  promise  of  woe  made  worse,  an  aggravation  of  conditions  of 

7—2 


loo  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

life  already  unendurable.  And  then  he  drew  a  vivid  picture 
of  peasant  poverty,  which  was  so  much  more  distressingly  and 
variously  terrible  than  poverty  in  the  towns,  relating,  with 
veridical  details,  with  short,  pathetic  anecdotes,  where  the 
peasants  lived,  what  they  ate — that  is  to  say,  how  hungry  they 
always  were — and  how  the  tax-collector  appeared  in  their  eyes 
as  the  fearful  spectre  of  starvation  and  death.  He  described 
the  nakedness  of  that  great  Basilicata  country,  the  landslides 
which  rolled  down  bare  mountains  to  bury  meagre  pastures, 
and  he  spoke  of  the  distance  of  those  wretched  villages  from 
the  railway,  whence  the  impossibility  of  paying  industries,  and 
he  mentioned  the  unhealthy  plains,  where  engineers,  road- 
makers,  and  stationmasters  contracted  malarial  fevers. 

While  talking  of  his  own  country,  so  desolate  and  so  un- 
happy, his  voice  had  lowered,  as  though  veiled  with  emotion. 
But  he  quickly  recovered  himself  and  came  to  the  point.  The 
duty  on  salt  fell  heavily  on  the  lower  classes — more  so  in  the 
rural  districts  than  in  the  urban.  They  already  ate  their  broth 
with  very  little  salt ;  now  they  would  eat  it  entirely  without 
salt.  And  the  latest  hygienic  researches,  unsparing  but 
reliable,  had  established  that  to  the  insufficiency  of  salt  were 
to  be  traced  the  dreadful  diseases  prevailing  among  the 
peasantry  of  Lombardy  and  Piedmont. 

A  murmur  of  approval  ran  along  some  of  the  benches.  The 
closest  attention  of  all  was  paid  where  the  four  vigorous  young 
Centrists  were  sitting,  Seymour,  Gerini,  Joanna,  and  Mar- 
chetti,  who  nevertheless  made  no  demonstrations,  with  that 
British  impassiveness  of  the  young  economist  deputies. 

'  In  the  small  towns  and  boroughs  and  villages  of  the  South 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  loi 

of  Italy,'  Sangiorgio  went  on,  'the  bakers  always  make  two 
kinds  of  bread — tasteless  and  cheap  for  the  poor  people,  and 
salted  for  the  well-to-do.  And  to  this  second  kind  the  bakers 
often  give  its  flavour,  not  with  salt,  because  it  is  too  dear,  but 
by  passing  a  cloth  steeped  in  sea- water  over  the  fresh  dough. 
In  the  houses  of  the  poor  a  coarse,  dark,  heavy-grained  salt  is 
used,  which  ought  only  to  be  sold  for  cattle,  but  which  human 
beings  are  obliged  to  buy  for  themselves.  By  increasing  the 
duty  the  Government  would  condemn  a  whole  class  of  tax- 
payers to  intolerable  privations,  whose  consequence  would  be 
ravage  by  sickness  and  yet  deeper  destitution.  The  millions 
spent  on  national  defence,  on  the  fortifications  of  the  country, 
on  the  army,  are  wisely  allotted,  but  is  it  necessary  to  be 
powerful  when  one  is  so  poor?  When  the  Minister  of  War 
calls  the  young  men  of  the  Basilicata  to  arms,  and  hopes  to 
find  a  body  of  stalwart  and  valiant  mountaineers,  he  will  be 
disappointed  at  seeing  a  herd  of  creatures  pale  and  emaciated 
from  illness,  weakness,  and  dejection.  Or,  rather,  not  even 
that,  for  the  barren  and  unfruitful  provinces  are  becoming 
more  and  more  depopulated ;  the  peasant,  desperate  over  the 
sterility  of  the  soil,  harried  by  the  fisc,  abandoned  by  Nature, 
persecuted  by  man,  prefers  to  turn  his  back  upon  the  land  of 
his  birth  and  leave  it  for  the  remote  shores  of  America.  The 
peasant  prefers  a  foreign  people,  a  foreign  clime,  whence  there 
is  no  return.  When  the  war-trumpet  shall  call  the  Italian  sons 
of  the  Basilicata  there  will  be  no  answer.  Driven  by  hunger 
and  despair,  they  will  have  gone  away  to  die  in  regions  far 
from  home !' 

The  Honourable  Francesco  Sangiorgio  stepped  back  to  his 


I02  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

bench  and  resumed  his  seat.  Cheers  and  applause  sounded 
upon  his  ears,  but  only  vaguely.  He  was  conscious  of  the 
buzz  of  discussion  which  follows  upon  every  important  speech. 
Immediately  in  front  of  him  had  collected  a  group  of  deputies 
who  were  arguing  somewhat  loudly,  referring  now  and  then  to 
their  honourable  colleague,  Sangiorgio,  and  half  turning  to- 
wards him,  as  if  seeking  endorsement  from  him.  Remaining 
stolidly  in  his  place,  with  eyes  downcast,  and  without  anyone 
coming  to  shake  hands  with  him  because  he  was  unknown, 
Sangiorgio  nevertheless  felt  the  approbation  of  the  whole 
House  rise  to  him  where  he  sat  on  the  topmost  bench.  He 
had  given  satisfaction  to  the  old  party  of  the  Right,  whose 
political  pride  was  flattered  ;  to  the  Extreme  Left,  who  thought 
to  have  discovered  a  Socialist  in  a  deputy  belonging  to  the 
Centre ;  to  all  the  egoistic  and  sentimental  members,  ready  to 
cry  misfortune  at  all  times  without  seeking  for  remedies ;  to 
all  deputies  with  economist  leanings  and  shadowy  notions  of 
agrarian  Socialism.  This  speech,  which  on  another  occasion 
would  have  passed  for  some  literary  effusion,  to-day  bore  a 
character  of  great  importance. 

***** 

Once  a  minute  the  glass  door  of  the  room  on  the  ground- 
floor  at  No.  9,  Via  della  Missione,  opened  to  admit  a  new- 
comer. Those  already  in  the  room,  seated  on  the  little  divans 
or  standing  about,  would  turn  and  eye  such  a  one  angrily;  a 
cold  blast  of  wind  would  come  in  with  him.  Whoever  entered, 
shaking  and  shivering,  made  straight  for  the  long  desk  dividing 
the  room,  took  a  small  blank,  and  wrote  on  it  his  own  name, 
as  well  as  the  deputy's  he  wished  to  see ;   and,  like  him, 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  103 

there  were  always  five  or  six  others  writing  on  small  blanks. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  desk  the  ushers,  in  uniform,  with 
medals  on  their  chest,  with  a  tricoloured  band  on  their  arm, 
gray  or  bald-headed,  were  moving  to  and  fro,  taking  away 
those  blanks,  half  a  dozen  at  a  time,  disappearing  through  a 
door  opening  upon  corridors  giving  access  to  the  hall.  Satisfied 
with  having  despatched  his  request,  its  sender  would  begin  to 
walk  up  and  down,  or,  if  he  happened  to  have  been  standing, 
would  take  a  seat,  without  impatience,  even  with  a  somewhat 
presumptuous  air  of  certainty. 

The  sacred  door  opened,  and  an  usher  reappeared  with 
several  blanks  in  hand ;  everybody  looked  up  and  lent  ear. 

*  Who  asked  for  the  Honourable  Parodi  ?'  shouted  the  usher. 
'  I,'  answered  a  voice  from  among  the  number  of  peopl§ 

waiting. 

'  He  is  not  there.' 

'Did  you  look  carefully?'  urgently  asked  the  voice,  belong- 
ing to  an  old  man  with  a  florid,  red  nose,  with  heavy,  purple 
lips. 

'  The  Honourable  Parodi  is  not  there,'  repeated  the  usher 
civilly. 

'  Well,  he  ought  to  be,'  muttered  the  other. 

'  Who  wanted  the  Honourable  Sambucetto  ?' 

*  I !'  exclaimed  a  young  fellow  with  a  pale  face  and  a  thread- 
bare overcoat,  whose  collar  was  turned  up. 

'  He  is  there,  but  he  is  unable  to  come.' 
•Why  can  he  not  come?'  demanded  the  youngster  in  an 
insolent  tone,  his  face  now  livid. 

'  He  said  nothing  more.     He  cannot  come.' 


104  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

The  young  man  mingled  with  the  people  who  filled  the 
room,  but  he  did  not  depart ;  he  remained,  angry,  sullen,  his 
cap  pulled  down  over  his  eyes,  in  an  altogether  unpromising 
frame  of  mind.  Moveover,  all  the  faces  of  the  people  who 
hurried  in  and  out  of  that  room,  or  sat  against  the  wall  on  the 
divans,  all  those  faces  wore  an  imprint  of  sadness,  of  weariness, 
of  repressed  suffering.  It  might  have  been  the  anteroom  of 
a  celebrated  physician,  where  invalids  came,  one  after  another, 
waiting  their  turn,  looking  about  with  the  indifferent  gaze  of 
people  who  have  lost  all  interest  in  everything  else,  their 
thoughts  for  ever  occupied  with  their  malady.  And  as  in 
such  a  lugubrious  anteroom,  which  he  who  has  once  been 
there  on  his  own  behalf  or  for  one  dear  to  him  can  never 
forget,  as  in  such  a  room  are  assembled  people  with  all  the 
infirmities  that  torment  our  poor,  mortal  body — the  consump- 
tive, with  narrow,  stooping  shoulders,  with  lean  neck,  his  eyes 
swimming  with  a  noxious  fluid ;  the  victim  of  heart  disease, 
with  pallid  face,  large  veins,  yellowish,  swollen  hands;  the 
anaemic,  with  violet  lips  and  white  gums ;  the  neurotically 
affected,  with  protuberant  jaws,  bulging  cheekbones,  emaciated 
frame ;  and  the  sufferers  from  all  other  diseases,  hideous  or 
pitiful,  which  draw  the  lines  of  the  face  tight,  which  make  the 
mouth  twitch,  and  impart  an  unwelcome  glow  to  the  hand, 
that  glow  that  terrifies  the  healthy — thus,  in  such  a  room,  did 
the  possessors  of  all  the  moral  ills  unite,  oblivious  of  all  com- 
plaints but  their  own. 

There  was  the  youth  who  had  taught  in  a  school  without  a 
license,  who  has  come  to  Rome  to  take  any  sort  of  employ- 
ment, however  mean,  and  who,  after  a  month's  half-hearted, 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  105 

vain  search,  has  at  last  begged  for  a  servant's  place,  which  is 
denied  him  because  he  is  not  servile ;  the  ex-clerk  of  the 
Bank  of  Naples  or  the  Bank  of  Sicily,  who  was  turned  out  for 
dishonesty  twelve  years  ago,  when  the  Left  was  in  power,  and 
wants  to  be  reinstated  by  the  Progressists,  whom  he  has  always 
served  faithfully ;  the  uncertain  industrial  speculator,  who 
must  pay  a  heavy  fine  into  the  Treasury  Department  because 
he  has  neglected  to  register  a  contract,  and  who  hopes  the 
Minister  will  graciously  remit  the  penalty;  the  widow  of  a 
pensioner,  accompanied  by  a  child  crying  with  the  cold,  who 
for  ten  months  has  been  applying  for  a  lottery  office,  and  is 
willing  to  surrender  the  pension  ;  the  loafer,  who  knows  how 
to  do  everything  and  is  of  no  use  for  anything,  who  positively 
must  have  a  place,  of  whatever  description,  on  the  ground 
that,  since  there  are  so  many  fools  in  the  Chamber  and  the 
Government  offices,  he,  too,  is  entitled  to  share  in  their 
paradise. 

The  variety  of  their  wishes  and  needs  is  infinite.  Every  one 
of  those  people  has  a  grievance  in  his  soul,  an  unfulfilled 
desire,  an  active,  torturing  delusion,  a  secret  sorrow,  a  fierce 
ambition,  a  discontent.  And  in  their  faces  may  be  seen  a 
corresponding  spasmodic  twitching,  a  contraction  of  angry 
lips,  a  dilation  of  nostrils  trembling  with  nervousness,  a  knit- 
ting of  the  brows  which  clouds  the  whole  countenance,  hands 
convulsively  doubled  in  overcoat  pockets,  a  melancholy  furrow 
in  the  women's  smile,  which  deepens  with  every  new  dis- 
illusion. But  all  of  them  are  completely  self-centred,  entirely 
oblivious  of  foreign  interests,  indulging  in  a  single  thought,  a 
fixed  idea,  because  of  which  they  watch,  meet,  and  conflict 


io6  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

with  one  another,  although  seeming  neither  to  hear  nor  to 
see  each  other.  The  floor  of  the  room  is  filthy,  muddied  by 
feet  that  have  splashed  through  the  puddles  in  the  lanes, 
and  spotted  all  over  with  the  thick  expectorations  of  people 
afflicted  with  a  cold. 

'  Who  asked  for  the  Honourable  Moraldi  ?'  shouts  the  usher. 

*  I,'  answers,  with  loud,  imposing  voice,  a  large,  stout,  red- 
throated  man. 

'  Be  kind  enough  to  wait  a  little ;  the  Minister  is  speaking.' 

The  large  man  puffs  himself  out  in  his  warm  topcoat,  which 
protuberates  sensibly  at  the  paunch.  Someone  looks  at  him 
enviously,  because  his  deputy  has  at  least  asked  him  to  wait, 
while  others  allege  absence  or  simply  send  word  that  they 
cannot  come.  Perhaps  he  is  also  envied  his  warm  overcoat, 
since  there  are  so  many  thin  suits  under  a  wretched  threadbare 
overcoat,  worn  through  autumn  and  winter  with  pretended 
resignation,  so  many  pepper-and-salt  trousers  under  a  green 
overcoat,  so  many  trousers  of  a  dirty  yellow  under  a  cinnamon- 
coloured,  ancient,  worn-out  overcoat. 

The  coming  and  going  continued.  Those  who  had  received 
a  definite  refusal  remained  rather  undecided,  a  sullen  look  on 
their  faces,  glancing  at  the  door  as  if  they  lacked  courage  to 
go  out  into  the  cold,  and  then  they  made  up  their  minds  to  go, 
which  they  did  with  bowed  shoulders,  at  a  slow  pace,  without 
looking  back.  For  one  who  went  away,  two  or  three  came  in  : 
the  room  was  as  full  as  ever ;  the  ushers  came  and  went  through 
the  door,  which  suggested  that  of  a  sanctuary.  It  rained 
refusals. 

Who  was  wishing  to  see  the  Honourable  Nicotera  ?' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  107 

*  I,'  answered  a  very  tall,  very  thin  man,  with  scrawny  neck 
and  the  face  of  a  skeleton,  on  which  sprouted  a  few  colourless 
hairs. 

*  He  is  there,  but  begs  to  be  excused  ;  he  is  not  able  to  come.' 
The  fantastically  lean  individual  bent  double,  like  a  cater- 
pillar, on  a  bench,  filled  out  another  blank,  and  consigned  it 
to  another  usher,  who  returned  exclaiming : 

*  Who  asked  for  the  Honourable  Zanardelli  ?' 

*  I,'  whispered  a  sibilant  voice. 

'  He  is  there,  but  the  Minister  is  speaking ;  he  cannot  come.* 

The  spectre  persistently  went  on  writing. 

One  deputy,  however,  more  obliging,  had  come  out  upon 
the  request  of  the  person  who  wanted  him,  accosting  him  with 
a  certain  degree  of  nimble  zeal,  leading  him  into  the  next  room, 
where  the  deputies  interviewed  their  constituents.  In  this 
room  were  three  or  four  ladies,  sitting  down,  waiting,  with 
their  hands  in  their  muffs.  The  deputy  and  his  constituent 
walked  up  and  down ;  the  constituent  spoke  vivaciously,  with 
gesticulations  ;  the  deputy  listened  attentively,  with  eyes  down- 
cast, now  and  then  nodding  his  head  in  approval. 

In  the  waiting-room  all  the  people  were  grown  weary ;  a 
physical  and  moral  lassitude  weighed  upon  them  :  the  new 
disillusion,  that  evenfall,  sapped  their  strength ;  one  of  them 
was  leaning  against  the  wall ;  the  child  had  gone  to  sleep  on 
the  widow's  knee ;  total  silence  reigned.  Real  or  fictitious 
misfortunes,  desires  of  idle  brains  or  worthy,  fervent  desires  of 
persevering  souls,  necessities  brought  about  by  indulgence  in 
vice  or  unmerited  mishaps,  extravagant  ambitions,  modest 
little  ambitions,  crazes  due  to  overwrought  nerves,  the  thirst 


io8  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

for  justice  of  obstinate  monomaniacs — all  this  human  suffering, 
endured  in  silence,  was  mixed  with  a  sense  of  oppression,  of 
sadness,  of  having  been  abandoned,  a  feeling  of  woeful  dis- 
consolateness  at  having  once  more  come  to  knock  at  that  door 
which  would  not  open.  The  gas-jets  were  burning  brightly, 
but  their  light  fell  on  the  mortified  faces  of  people  paralyzed 
and  listless,  as  though  they  were  dead. 

Three  ushers  came  in  through  the  door,  one  after  the  other. 

'  Who  asked  for  the  Honourable  Sella  ?' 

'  Who  asked  for  the  Honourable  Bomba  ?' 

*  Who  asked  for  the  Honourable  Crispi  ?' 

'  I— I — I,'  answered  the  thin  little  voice  of  the  man-skeleton. 

*  The  Honourable  Sella  cannot  leave  the  hall.' 
'  The  Honourable  Bomba  is  busy  in  the  hall.' 

*  The  Honourable  Crispi  is  with  the  Budget  Committee.' 
Quietly  the  skeleton  wrote  on  another  blank,  and  handed  it 

to  an  usher. 

*  Excuse  me,'  observed  the  usher,  *  we  are  not  allowed  to 
call  the  Ministers,  and  especially  the  President  of  the 
Council.' 

*  And  why  ?'  asked  the  spectre  in  surprise. 

*  It  is  the  rule.' 

But  with  unabated  patience  he  wrote  another  name,  and 
then  began  to  walk  to  and  fro,  overtowering  all  the  rest.  One 
concluded  to  leave;  his  footstep  dragged  as  he  took  away 
with  him  the  humiliation  of  that  long,  useless  wait ;  others, 
making  a  desperate  resolve,  went  away  to  post  themselves,  in 
the  chill  of  the  evening,  at  the  door  of  Montecitorio,  to  wait 
for  the  deputies  coming  out.     Others,  less  venturesome,  still 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  109 

lingered'  behind :  the  gas  afforded  a  little  warmth,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  sitting  some  deputy  might  appear.  A  brougham 
stopped  before  the  door,  remained  closed,  a  footman  jumped 
from  the  box,  came  in,  gave  a  note  to  an  usher,  and  stood 
waiting,  with  the  impassive  air  of  people  used  to  receive  orders. 
An  usher  shouted : 

'  Who  wanted  the  Honourable  Barbarulo  ? 

*  I,'  said  the  ghost. 
'  He  is  not  there.' 

*  Is  he  away  for  a  holiday  ?' 

'  He  has  been  dead  four  months.' 

This  remark  settled  the  living  corpse.  He  reflected  for  an 
instant,  but  probably  could  think  of  no  other  names,  and 
slowly  took  his  departure.  A  moment  after  Francesco  San- 
giorgio  crossed  the  room,  spoke  to  the  footman — only  two 
words — and  accompanied  by  him  went  out  of  doors  and  got 
into  the  carriage,  all  excitement  still  with  his  success. 

*  My  sincere  congratulations,'  said  Donna  Elena  Fiammanti, 
pressing  his  hand. 

The  brougham  drove  off.  In  the  waiting-room  the  going 
and  coming  had  ceased;  the  child  was  crying,  after  being 
awakened  by  its  mother ;  the  tired  ushers  sat  down  for  a 
minute;  two  deputies,  one  with  three  acquaintances  and  the 
other  with  two,  were  gossiping  in  the  other  room. 

*  *  -x-  *  •»■ 

The  flames  were  flickering  in  the  fireplace ;  three  logs 
forming  a  triangle  were  burning  at  their  ends.  Donna  Elena 
gently  stirred  the  hot  ashes  and  the  glowing  embers ;  they  gave 
forth  a  few  sparks,  and  the  three  logs  blazed  up.     Then  sh© 


no  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

sat  back  in  her  chair  and  mechanically  smoothed  down  her 
clinging,  black  silk  skirt  at  the  hips. 

'  Do  you  like  a  fire,  Sangiorgio  ?  It  must  be  cold  down 
there  in  the  Basilicata.' 

'  Very  cold,'  said  he,  taking  a  seat  in  an  easy-chair.  *  We 
have  no  handsome  fireplaces  ;  there  are  large  high  stoves 
under  whose  arch  a  wooden  bench  is  placed.  The  head  of  the 
family  sits  there  in  winter,  with  his  children  and  relatives 
about  him.' 

*  I  am  very  fond  of  an  open  fire,'  she  said,  with  eyes  half 
closed,  as  if  they  were  heavy  from  fatigue,  'but  only  when 
someone  is  with  me.     I  get  melancholy  alone.' 

She  spoke  with  her  two  arms  lying  upon  the  arms  of  the 
chair,  her  head  leaning  against  the  back.  The  lamplight  made 
the  gold  necklace  sparkle  on  the  high  collar  of  her  silk  dress, 
and  drew  a  flash  from  the  gilt  buckle  on  her  black  slipper. 
Her  foot  was  forward ;  it  was  rather  plump,  although  arched. 

'  You  are  never  alone,  I  suppose  ?' 

'  No,  never,'  she  replied  frankly.     *  I  hate  being  alone.' 

*  No  doubt,'  he  vaguely  assented. 

*  No,  no,  do  not  agree  with  me  from  politeness  !  I  know 
that  you  men,  especially  when  you  have  a  great  ambition  or 
are  deeply  in  love,  wish  for  solitude.  But  we  women  never  do. 
We  must  have  company.  If  a  woman  tells  you  she  prefers 
solitude,  do  not  believe  her,  Sangiorgio.  She  is  deceiving  you 
deliberately,  or  else  wishes  to  avoid  a  discussion.  They  are  all 
like  myself,  or,  rather,  I  am  a  woman  like  the  rest.  Visitors 
amuse  me.  Fools  interest  me,  too.  To-day,  in  the  Chamber, 
for  instance ' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  in 

*  For  instance  ?'  he  asked  with  a  faint  smile. 

'  There  was  one  behind  me  in  the  Speaker's  gallery ;  he  was 
talking  nonsense  to  me  for  an  hour.' 

'  And  did  he  not  bore  you  ?' 

'  No,  he  prevented  me  from  hearing  the  Minister's  speech. 
Do  you  smoke?' 

'  Thank  you.' 

She  handed  him  the  tobacco-box.  Her  hands  were  plump, 
with  pink,  polished  nails. 

'  You  made  a  remarkably  fine  speech  to-day,'  she  resumed, 
lighting  a  yellow  cigarette. 

Sangiorgio  raised  his  eyes  without  answering. 

'  If  you  care  to,  buy  the  newspapers  to-morrow ;  they  will 
be  full  of  you.' 

'  I  think  not  j  the  Minister  is  a  great  favourite.* 

'  Nonsense  !  He  is  like  Aristides :  his  fellow-citizens  have 
become  tired  of  hearing  him  called  "The  Just"  Do  not  let 
the  quotation  alarm  you,  Sangiorgio ;  I  know  neither  Greek 
nor  Latin.  It  was  merely  a  reminiscence  of  my  youth,  when  I 
used  to  read.' 

*  You  do  not  read  now  ?' 

*  No  ;  I  am  tired  of  books.* 
'  They  are  no  use.' 

The  man-servant  came  in  with  a  small  bamboo  tray  and  the 
coffee ;  the  cups,  too,  were  Japanese,  of  a  most  delicate,  blue 
porcelain. 

*  How  many  lumps  ?'  she  asked,  holding  up  the  silver  sugar- 
tongs. 

•Two.' 


112  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

While  they  were  drinking  the  coffee  Sangiorgio  looked 
about  the  room.  He  had  been  there  for  a  moment,  before 
dinner,  while  the  Countess  had  gone  to  change  her  dress.  It 
was  a  little  parlour,  without  brackets,  without  tables,  without 
upholstered  furniture,  full  of  large  and  small  easy-chairs,  small 
divans,  and  stools  ;  it  was  a  little  room  without  corners.  The 
piano  was  also  draped  with  a  quantity  of  Turkish  and  Persian 
stuffs.  On  the  wall  hung  a  piece  of  an  ecclesiastical  vestment, 
red  and  embroidered  with  gold. 

'  You  will  see  that  to-morrow  a  number  of  deputies  will  ask 
to  be  presented  to  you.  You  will  enjoy  all  the  sweets  of 
success.' 

'  Am  I  to  believe  in  the  admiration  of  my  colleagues  ?' 

*  No,  my  dear  friend,  but  you  may  take  pleasure  in  it.  Many 
beautiful  and  good  things  in  life  are  false  in  their  essence.  It 
is  wisdom  to  profit  by  them,  to  take  them  as  they  are,  without 
asking  any  more.' 

And  she  cast  at  him  a  fugitive,  rapid  glance.  He  under- 
stood at  once.  In  that  little  room  the  same  perspicacity  came 
to  his  aid  which  during  the  day  had  assisted  him  in  his  bold- 
ness before  the  Chamber. 

'  Love  is  like  that,  too,'  he  murmured. 

'  Particularly  love,'  remarked  the  Countess  Elena  Fiammanti, 
opening  wide  her  large  gray  eyes,  which  that  evening  were 
tinted  with  blue.  '  Have  you  ever  been  very  much  in  love, 
Sangiorgio  ?' 

*  Never  much,  and  besides ' 

•Very  well.  When  you  do  fall  in  love,  remember  what  I 
say.     Love  is  a  great  thing,  but  not  the  best.    One  must  not 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  113 

ask  more  of  it  than  it  can  give.  But  a  man  is  exacting,  a  man 
is  selfish,  a  man  insists  on  being  the  object  of  a  passion,  and 
then — the  woman  lies.  The  sentiment  of  love  is  really  an 
ordinary  one ;  there  are  some  stronger ;  love  is  an  ephemeral 
thing,  and  often  accomplishes  nothing.' 

And  while  she  uttered  her  romantic  paradoxes  with  a  slight 
touch  of  pedantry,  her  crimson  lips  gleamed  in  their  humidity, 
her  hand  ruffled  the  natural  curls  over  her  forehead,  she  swung 
her  plump  little  foot  backward  and  forward,  whose  skin  was 
visible  through  the  black  silk,  perforated  stocking.  Sangiorgio, 
feeling  very  much  at  home,  looked  at  her  with  a  rather  fatuous 
smile,  which,  being  absorbed  in  her  paradoxes,  she  probably 
did  not  notice. 

Throwing  her  cigarette  into  the  fire,  Elena  continued  : 

'  Women  also  want  to  be  deluded.  "  Those  traitors  of  men 
do  not  know  how  to  love  !"  you  hear  them  cry  ;  and  then  they 
weep  and  wail.  They  must  have  faithfulness — a  pretty  story, 
good  enough  to  be  palmed  off  on  children  !  As  if  they  could 
be  faithful !  As  if  they  had  no  fibres,  blood,  imagination — ■ 
destructive,  all  of  these,  to  constancy  !  A  hundred  thousand 
lire  reward  to  anyone  who  will  bring  me  a  man  and  a  woman 
who  are  truly  faithful,  absolutely  faithful !' 

Francesco  Sangiorgio  had  taken  her  uplifted  hand  in  his. 
He  toyed  lightly  with  her  fingers,  with  her  diamond  rings. 
He  more  than  once  playfully  bent  his  head  over  the  hand,  and 
finally  kissed  it  on  the  vein  in  the  wrist.  Donna  Elena  was  no 
longer  in  the  least  formidable  to  him ;  he  seemed  to  be  quite 
intimate  with  her  already  ;  vulgar  ideas  began  surging  into  his 
mind.     What  intoxication  remained  from  the  events  of  the 

8 


114  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

day,  aided  by  this  feminine  atmosphere  all  redolent  with 
corylopsis,  by  this  alluring  woman,  by  her  language  become 
common  by  force  of  paradox,  turned  his  head.  To  assert  his 
new  intimacy  with  Donna  Elena,  he  would  have  liked  to 
stretch  himself  out  on  a  sofa,  or  fling  himself  on  the  carpet,  or 
throw  matches  into  the  fire — in  fact,  to  conduct  himself  as 
impertinently  as  an  ill-bred  boy.  He  resisted  these  tempta- 
tions through  an  exertion  of  will ;  nevertheless,  he  was  incited 
by  the  ironical  smile  which  gave  Donna  Elena's  nether  lip  a 
disdainful  curve,  the  light  tremor  of  the  nostrils  of  that 
prominent  aquiline  nose,  the  combined  refinement  and  coarse- 
ness of  that  face.  Quite  gently  he  took  the  rings  off  her 
left  hand  and  dandled  them  in  his  own ;  and  in  the  state  of 
inebriation  which  had  seized  upon  him  his  strongest  wish  was 
to  slip  off  one  of  her  shoes,  to  see  her  little  foot  bend  bash- 
fully in  her  stocking. 

*  To  be  sure,  there  are  virtuous  women,'  she  went  on ;  '  who 
denies  that  ?  But  with  them  the  case  is  totally  different. 
There  are  cold  women  ;  there  are  women  who  do  not  love.  I 
know  a  few — not  many,  only  a  few.  Under  those  circum- 
stances it  needs  little  strength  to  remain  true.  Donna  Angelica, 
His  Excellency's  wife — there  you  have  a  virtuous  woman ! 
Do  you  know  Donna  Angelica,  Sangiorgio  ?' 

*  H'm — yes — by  sight,'  he  stammered. 

And  then  he  became  utterly  embarrassed,  with  the  rings  in 
his  hands,  having  not  a  notion  what  to  do  with  them.  At  last 
he  put  them  on  a  stool,  not  venturing  to  place  them  back 
upon  the  hand  whence  he  had  stripped  them.  Suddenly  the 
cloud  which  had  shadowed  his  mind  was  dissipated,  and  he 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  115 

felt  ashamed  of  the  childish  tricks  he  had  contemplated.  He 
was  very  near  to  begging  Donna  Elena's  pardon,  but  she,  most 
likely,  was  unconcerned.  All  nervousness,  with  his  hand  he 
stroked  and  stroked  the  folds  of  his  black  cloth  waistcoat,  as 
though  he  wanted  to  make  it  immutably  rigid. 

'  What  do  you  think  of  my  sermon  ?' 

'I  am  an  enthusiastic  disciple.  I  do  not  grasp  all  your 
teachings,  but  I  bow  to  them,'  answered  the  deputy,  having 
recovered  enough  presence  of  mind  to  be  jocose. 

'  I  will  give  you  some  music ;  you  will  understand  that,'  she 
said,  getting  up.  *  You  may  smoke,  read,  or  go  to  sleep.  If 
you  do  not  listen  I  shall  not  mind.  I  shall  be  playing  as 
much  for  myself  as  for  you.' 

In  a  moment  a  soft  and  sympathetic  voice  was  singing  the 
first  notes  of  Tosti's  '  Ave  Maria.'  Francesco  started  at  those 
unexpected,  unaccountable  tones.  Indeed,  Donna  Elena's 
voice  was  unlike  herself,  or,  rather,  it  was  hers  in  one  respect, 
and  by  its  other  qualities  it  completed  her.  In  singing  she 
met  with  her  own  character.  She  sounded  the  key  of  the  deep 
contralto  which  lacks  in  smoothness,  and  yet  is  rich  and  warm, 
and  stirs  the  soul ;  which  is  full-toned  and  amorous ;  which 
conveys  impassioned  avowals  and  storms  of  jealousy.  That 
side  of  Elena's  voice  resembled  her.  But  there  was  also 
infinite  sweetness  ;  there  was  the  purity  of  notes  sung  without 
a  quaver ;  there  was  the  liquid  tenderness  and  innocence  of 
an  almost  childish  voice.  And  there  was — which  is  a  rare 
feature  in  singing — a  sort  of  ideal  sensuality,  a  harmonious 
transfiguration  of  it,  a  supremely  poetical  interpretation  of  it. 
In  this  way  did  her  voice  complete  her. 

8—2 


Ii6  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

She  had  forgotten  her  hearer,  and  was  singing  with  her  head 
thrown  back,  and  with  such  languorous  eyes  that  the  lashes  cast 
a  shadow  on  her  cheeks.  Her  lips  were  lightly  parted,  and 
they  scarcely  moved.  Her  white  throat  was  swelling  under 
the  black  collar  and  the  necklace  on  her  dress,  while  her  hands 
ran  nimbly  over  the  keys,  fingering  them  as  delicately  as  a 
caress.  A  serener,  sweeter  atmosphere  seemed  to  be  diffused 
in  the  little  room,  which  until  then  had  suggested  hardness 
and  effrontery.  A  suave  light  settled  on  the  surroundings,  on 
the  furniture,  and  on  all  things  inanimate,  tempering  their 
sharp,  brazen  expression.  Donna  Elena  was  singing  a  melan- 
choly romance  by  Schumann,  whose  refrain  seemed  rather  to 
add  affliction  than  to  console,  so  extremely  mournful  was  the 
music :  '  Va,  prends  courage,  coeur  souffrant.'  And  Sangiorgio, 
at  the  end  of  his  day  of  triumph,  listened  pensively,  invaded 
by  an  unfamiliar  sensation  of  sadness. 


CHAPTER  II 

It  was  the  last  public  ball  on  the  last  Tuesday  of  the  carnival, 
at  the  Costanzi  Theatre.  The  small  people  whose  only 
amusement  during  the  whole  carnival  was  one  public  ball ; 
students  who  still  had  ten  lire  in  their  pocket;  Government 
clerks  who  had  a  taste  for  mild  debauches ;  shop  assistants 
whose  establishments  would  be  closed  the  following  day ; 
fledgelings  in  law  and  beginners  in  medicine — all  these  and 
many  more  from  ten  o'clock  forward  filed  in  through  the  four 
red  doors,  which  remained  open  all  night.  On  the  ground- 
floor  the  attendants  in  the  cloakrooms  lost  their  heads  a  little 
with  the  numbering  of  overcoats  and  capes,  gathering  up  of 
sashes  and  veils,  and  putting  together  of  walking-sticks  and 
wraps.  Crowds  of  people  streamed  continuously  into  the  huge 
parterre,  which  never  seemed  to  fill,  in  spite  of  the  tremendous 
concourse  of  people,  clad  in  bright  colours  that  stood  out 
against  the  sober  background.  They  were  indulging  in  the 
everlasting  circular  promenade  which  is  a  characteristic  feature 
at  a  Roman  public  ball.  Four -and -twenty  pulcinellos — a 
merry  company  of  young  fellows  holding  on  to  one  another's 
white  blouses,  one  behind  the  other — careered  across  the  floor 
laughing  and  shrieking,  like  a  rushing  avalanche.  In  the 
middle  of  the  place  a  number  of  feminine  masks  had  collected 


Ii8  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

in  a  large  circle.  They  wore  short  white  jackets,  very  much 
like  babies'  shirts,  tied  under  the  chin  with  large  red  and  blue 
bows,  and  had  infants'  curls  on  their  heads  and  tinkling  rattles 
in  their  hands — the  inexpensive,  pretty,  and  saucy  costume  of 
Donna  Juanita  in  the  act  laid  in  Jamaica.  Having  come  in 
good  company,  these  fair  masqueraders  scarcely  quitted  their 
escorts.  Hardly  did  the  orchestra,  in  the  stand  erected  on 
the  proscenium  near  the  great  purling  fountain,  strike  up  a 
polka,  when  the  couples  began  to  turn  in  a  curiously  sedate 
manner,  with  steps  carefully  regular,  avoiding  collisions, 
dancing  conscientiously.  When  the  music  ceased  they  halted 
abruptly,  as  if  in  surprise,  the  men  offered  their  partners  an 
arm,  and  without  exchanging  a  word  they  began  the  circular 
promenade.  At  a  fresh  summons  they  once  more  went  into 
the  middle  and  danced  again,  with  almost  laborious  per- 
sistency, while  all  round  them  stood  admiring  spectators  three 
deep. 

Three  girls  dressed  in  black,  with  white  aprons  and  enormous 
white  muslin  caps,  were  going  about  arm-in-arm,  speaking  in 
a  high,  piping  voice,  and  making  gestures  with  their  hands 
gloved  in  black,  puzzling  half  the  assembly.  In  a  box  of  the 
second  tier  a  red  satin,  female  domino,  with  a  hood  like  a 
■  cock's  comb,  sat  quite  alone,  her  arm,  which  was  red  to  the 
very  gloves,  lying  on  the  edge  of  the  box.  Here  and  there 
other  stylish  and  mysterious  dominos  were  to  be  seen — one 
tall  and  slender,  all  in  blue,  with  a  big  hat  shaped  like  a  closed 
conch ;  another  in  black  satin,  with  face  concealed  behind 
black  Venetian  lace ;  an  opulent  mask  exhibiting  under  an 
open  domino  of  red  and  gold  brocade  a  suit  of  cream-coloured 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  1 19 

brocade ;  and  many  more  besides,  all  followed  by  young  men 
trying  to  guess  at  their  faces.  But  in  the  main  the  gathering 
was  composed  of  plain,  middle-class  families — father  and 
mother,  sons  and  daughters,  who  had  come  to  this  ball  as  to 
an  evening  outdoor  performance,  in  dark  cloth  dress,  white 
neckerchief,  and  hat  with  black  feathers ;  and  as  they  met 
they  stopped  to  exchange  compliments  and  tittle-tattle,  taking 
jokes  from  each  other  with  the  equanimity  of  the  Roman 
middle  class  that  is  never  upset.  The  throng  was  densest 
about  the  two  barges  (the  small  stage  boxes),  in  one  of  which 
the  members  of  the  Hunt  Club,  in  evening  dress,  with  black 
necktie  and  gardenia  at  buttonhole,  and  in  the  other  the 
cavalry  officers,  were  leaning  over  to  talk  and  laugh  with  their 
friends  in  the  parterre. 

When  Francesco  Sangiorgio  entered  the  vestibule  and 
bought  a  ticket  of  admission,  it  was  half-past  eleven.  A 
feminine  shape,  dressed  in  an  embroidered  Turkish  costume, 
her  head  covered  over,  and  her  face  concealed  behind  a  white 
veil,  came  up  to  him,  and  said  in  a  flutelike  voice : 

*  Good-evening,  dear  Sangiorgio  !     Why  so  melancholy  ?' 

'  Because  I  have  not  yet  found  out  who  you  are,  sweet- 
heart !' 

*  You  do  not  know  me,  you  must  not  know  me,  you  never 
will  know  me  !  I  can  tell  why  you  are  melancholy,  Sangiorgio. 
I  will  whisper  it  in  your  ear  :  you  are  in  love  !* 

*  Yes,  with  you,  my  dear !' 

'  How  amusing  you  are  !  You  are  much  too  gallant.  That's 
not  the  custom  here.  Be  rude,  I  beg  of  you — your  reputation 
is  at  stake !    But  listen — Ferrante  is  no  longer  a  candidate 


120  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

for  membership  on  the  Budget  Committee.  You  are  being 
talked  of;  I  warn  you,  be  careful.' 

He  stood  dumfounded.  The  mask  edged  away  into  the 
crowd,  and  vanished. 

The  news  had  greatly  astonished  him  :  he  had  not  expected 
it.  What  had  been  the  outcome  of  his  great  speech?  A 
flattering  interview  with  the  leader  of  the  Right,  Don  Mario 
Tasca,  the  cool  speaker,  moderate  and  accomplished,  the  mild 
Socialist,  the  politician  who  had  lost  his  own  party  through 
the  nebulosity  of  his  views.  And  then  there  had  been  bows 
and  introductions  and  handshakings.  The  Minister,  in  re- 
sponse, had  rendered  honour  to  his  adversary,  but  had  insisted 
on  his  motion,  and  the  Chamber  had  voted  the  Budget  by  a 
large  majority.  Who  was  thinking  of  his  speech  any  more  ? 
The  Honourable  Dalma  had  once  said  to  him,  with  his  poetical 
Parliamentary  cynicism  :  '  In  politics  everything  is  forgotten.' 

In  the  vestibule,  the  couples  were  walking  and  talking,  arm- 
in-arm;  here  groups  of  young  bloods  were  discussing  the 
financial  situation,  with  a  view  to  supper ;  here  solitary 
dominos  were  wandering  back  and  forth  in  expectation  of 
someone  who  came  not.  Here  Sangiorgio  met  the  Honour- 
able GuUi-Pausania.  The  Sicilian  deputy  was  leaning  against 
the  wall,  waiting  like  some  of  the  others,  stylish  and  handsome 
in  evening  costume,  gallant  Southerner  that  he  was,  with  his 
pointed,  chestnut  beard,  his  greenish  eyes  travelling  over  the 
crowd,  and  his  silk  hat  covering  a  premature  baldness,  because 
of  which  several  women  were  in  love  with  him. 

'  Oh,  my  dear  Sangiorgio !'  said  GuUi,  with  a  strong 
Sicilian  accent,  *  alone,  all  alone,  at  the  ball  ?' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  I2I 

•  Yes,  alone.  I  expect  nobody  ;  nobody  expects  me,  and  I 
am  sure  my  honourable  colleague,  GuUi-Pausania,  is  not  follow- 
ing my  example.' 

'  Well,  what  is  to  be  done  ?'  replied  GuUi,  smiling.     '  We 

spend  our  lives  waiting ' 

'  Not  always  for  the  same  person,  fortunately.' 

*  Oh  no  !  that  would  be  too  desperate.     Any  political  news  ?' 
'  None,  my  dear  colleague.     Hope  you  will  enjoy  your- 
self!' 

'  Thanks  !'  replied  Gulli-Pausania,  with  his  distinguished, 
sensual  smile. 

Sangiorgio  went  into  the  auditorium.  His  lashes  quivered 
over  his  down-looking  eyes.  The  theatre,  with  its  three  rows 
of  boxes,  its  galleries,  and  its  stage,  was  brilliantly  lighted,  and 
the  white  background  of  the  decorations  enhanced  the  bright- 
ness. On  the  stage  the  stream  of  the  tall  fountain  was  tinted 
red  by  a  ray  of  electric  light.  The  place  was  full ;  people  were 
still  arriving  from  other  entertainments,  from  cafes,  from  re- 
ceptions, from  balls  ;  neither  standing  still  nor  fast  walking 
was  now  any  longer  permitted.  At  first  Sangiorgio  saw  nothing 
but  the  shoulders  of  a  stalwart  gentleman  in  front  of  him,  at 
his  right  the  red  ear  of  a  cocotte,  whose  mask  was  certainly 
fastened  on  too  tight,  to  his  left  the  sharp  profile  of  a  thin, 
elongated  damsel,  with  melancholy  eyes.  The  tall  gentleman 
looked  here,  there,  and  everywhere  among  the  boxes,  jerking 
a  head  with  a  light  mane,  precisely  parted  in  the  middle. 
Once,  when  he  stopped  to  look  at  a  box  in  the  first  tier,  full  of 
black  dominos,  making  neither  sound  nor  motion,  Sangiorgio 
found  himself  beside  him.     It  was  the  Honourable  Prince  di 


122  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

Sirmio,  who  bore  the  title  of  Most  Serene  Highness,  and  was 
the  richest  nobleman  in  Rome. 

*  Good-evening,  honourable  colleague,*  said  the  Prince  in 
his  slow,  liquid  tone,  with  the  note  of  cold  fatigue  which  was 
one  of  his  personal  peculiarities.  *  I  believe  this  is  your  first 
visit  to  one  of  these  places  of  corruption,  where  everyone 
assumes  strict  virtue.  Strict  virtue,  do  you  not  think  ?  You 
have  no  doubt  been  told  that  we  people  in  the  capital  lead  a 
wild  life ;  instead  of  that,  as  you  see,  we  walk  very  slowly 
round  and  round,  pour  le  bon  motif,  looking  for  our  wife,  who 
must  be  in  one  of  the  boxes  with  her  sister.  Meanwhile,  we 
mingle  with  the  crowd,  as  you  perceive,  to  listen  and  learn. 
They  all  tell  me  I  am  democratic — and  I  behave  accordingly. 
Are  you  doing  anything  in  politics,  honourable  colleague  ? 
Ce  rCest  pas  le  bonheur — however,  I  have  had  nothing  to  do 
with  politics  for  an  everlasting  age.  The  head  of  my  party  is 
Don  Emilio  Castelar :  I  am  a  Spanish  Republican.  Are  you 
surprised  ?' 

Francesco  Sangiorgio  smiled,  but  made  no  answer,  which 
pleased  the  Prince,  since  he  liked  neither  to  be  talked  to  nor 
interrupted.  He  had  a  smooth,  flowing  tongue,  and  interrup- 
tion annoyed  him. 

'  Ah,  there  is  my  wife,'  continued  Sirmio.  '  Who  is  that  in 
the  box  next  to  hers  ?  I  see — it  is  the  Minister  of  Foreign 
Affairs  with  his  two  daughters,  Grace  and  the  other,  whose 
name  ought  to  be  Justice,  but  who  is  called  Eleonora.  The 
quip  is  not  mine ;  it  is  from  a  newspaper.  Good-night,  honour- 
able colleague.' 

'Good-night,  Prince.' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  123 

Sangiorgio,  in  lieu  of  walking  the  smaller  circle  on  the  floor, 
took  the  larger,  and  went  up  towards  the  stage,  where  along 
the  wings  were  disposed  tables  and  chairs,  about  which  sat 
whole  families  of  the  middle  classes,  drinking  aerated  waters, 
or  inseparable  couples,  tired  of  one  another,  but  not  daring  to 
split,  quafifing  mugs  of  beer.  He  passed  close  to  the  fountain 
now  tinged  violet  by  the  electric  light — a  most  delicate  shade 
— and  he  went  by  the  basin  and  the  great  mirror  at  the  back 
over  to  the  musicians'  stand.  Over  his  head,  they  suddenly 
burst  into  the  opening  notes  of  the  postilion  mazurka  from  the 
ballet  •  Excelsior,'  which  was  highly  popular  that  winter.  A 
momentary  movement  took  place  from  the  stage  to  the  par- 
terre, a  general  undulation  of  heads  in  time  with  the  lively 
measure,  as  it  were ;  people  crowded  towards  the  parterre  to 
see  the  dancing.  At  a  table  near  the  left  wing,  the  Honour- 
able Schuffer  sat  alone,  drinking  beer,  reviewing  the  assembly 
through  a  pair  of  bright  eyes  behind  spectacles,  occasionally 
raising  his  pointed  nose  and  sharp  chin. 

'  Come,  my  dear  colleague,  and  take  a  mug  of  beer  with  me,* 
said  Schuffer,  in  his  soft,  Venetian  accent.  'But  being  a 
Neapolitan,  perhaps  you  do  not  like  beer.* 

'  No,  thank  you.  Honourable — no,  thank  you,  I  will  not  take 
any ;  I  have  just  come  in.' 

'  I  came  an  hour  ago,  and  in  that  hour  goodness  knows  how 
many  elbows  have  been  dug  into  me,  how  many  times  I  have 
been  shoved,  and  how  many  feet  have  trodden  on  mine.  I 
took  refuge  here  to  avoid  it ;  you  know  I  am  unlucky  in 
some  things.' 

Sangiorgio   smiled.      The    Honourable    Schuffer,    looking 


124  THE  CONQ UEST  OF  ROME 

tousled  and  mischievous  like  a  boy,  with  his  curly  head  of  hair, 
had  already  had  four  suits  for  defamation.  The  deputy,  un- 
fortunately, had  seen  fit  to  get  at  odds  with  a  guard,  a  porter, 
a  station-master,  and  a  waiter  in  a  caf(^,  and  while  the  same 
thing  happened  to  a  hundred  other  deputies  without  serious 
consequences,  as  if  on  purpose  the  guard,  the  porter,  the 
station-master,  and  the  waiter,  had  severally  brought  action 
against  him,  so  that  every  now  and  then  the  Chamber  was 
called  upon  to  authorize  legal  proceedings. 

'I  learnt  to  drink  beer  on  my  travels  to  Japan,'  went  on 
Schuffer.  '  Great  country  that,  honourable  colleague  !  I 
never  had  a  lawsuit  there  with  anyone,  I  assure  you.  Honour- 
able, you  are  Ministerial — shall  you  vote  those  millions  for  the 
Minister  of  War  ?'  he  added,  as  if  struck  by  a  sudden  idea. 

'  What  about  yourself,  Honourable  Schuflfer  ?'  quickly  threw 
in  Sangiorgio. 

•  I  ?  I  ?'  said  the  other,  nonplussed ;  '  I  must  think  about  it. 
We  might  discuss  it,  do  you  not  think^ — and  come  to  some 
understanding  ?  It  is  a  serious  question  j  war  swallows  up 
every  farthing  in  the  country.' 

'  I  ask  for  nothing  better ;  certainly  we  will  talk  about  it 
again.     Good-night,  Honourable  Schuffer.' 

The  postilion  mazurka  was  now  greatly  enlivening  the  ball. 
There  were  three  circles  of  dancers  :  near  the  entrance  to  the 
parterre,  in  the  centre  of  the  floor,  and  on  the  stage.  A 
woman  masquerader  dressed  as  a  Bersagliere  officer,  with 
plumed  hat  over  one  ear,  bare  arms  coming  out  from  beneath 
the  gold  fringes  of  her  epaulets,  and  breeches  fitting  closely  at 
the  knee,  was  dancing  with  a  girl  disguised  as  a  Satanic  imp. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  125 

Both  were  as  serious  as  could  be,  repulsing  everyone  who  wanted 
to  separate  them.  The  boxes,  too,  were  now  filled  with  ladies 
and  gentlemen  come  from  receptions  and  balls.  The  first  and 
second  tiers  were  entirely  taken  up.  In  the  box  next  to  the 
'  barge,'  in  the  first  tier,  were  to  be  seen  the  delicate  and  graceful 
Florentine  beauty  of  Elsa  Bellini,  married  to  Novelli,  and  the 
blond  opulence  of  Lalla  Terziani.  Both  ladies  had  come 
from  the  Valle.  With  them  were  Rosolino  Scalia,  the  Sicilian 
deputy  of  military  carriage ;  the  little  Prince  of  Nerola,  the 
new  deputy  from  the  Abruzzi ;  a  young  man  of  distinguished 
mien,  with  a  small  black  moustache ;  Novelli  and  Terziani, 
the  two  husbands. 

'  Honourable  Sangiorgio,'  said  the  little  Prince,  leaning  over 
the  side  of  the  box. 

'Well,  honourable  colleague?'  said  the  other,  raising  his 
head. 

'  If  you  see  Sangarzia,  will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  him 
I  am  here  ?     Do  you  know  who  will  be  elected,  the  day  after 
to-morrow,  for  the  Budget  Committee  ?' 
•  The  Honourable  Ferrante,  of  course.' 
'I   think  not — I  think  not,'  replied  the  Prince,   smiling 
maliciously. 

'  As  Sangiorgio  went  away  he  heard  remarks  from  the  box 
like  '  Clever  fellow  !'  and  '  Gifted  Southerner !' 

He  looked  at  various  boxes  in  search  of  Sangarzia.  In  one, 
of  the  first  tier,  were  the  two  Neapolitan  sisters  Acquaviva, 
one  of  them  married  to  the  deputy  Marquis  di  Santa  Marta, 
the  other  to  the  deputy  Count  Lapucci.  The  Countess,  dark 
and  vivacious,  with  a  thick-lipped,  deep-hued  mouth,  with  two 


126  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

flashing  eyes,  was  the  very  opposite  of  her  husband,  a  dark, 
slender,  very  taciturn,  very  pensive  young  man,  said  to  be 
haughty,  although  he  was  a  Socialist  deputy.  The  Santa 
Marta  pair  was  different.  The  wife,  fair  and  curly-haired,  had 
a  childish  face  and  a  frank  expression,  and  was  very  simply 
gowned  ;  the  husband  was  fair,  with  languid  eyes  and  an  indolent 
manner.  The  Countess  Lapucci  was  laughing  loudly ;  the 
Marchioness  di  Santa  Marta  was  smiling.  Count  Lapucci 
was  watching  the  crowd  silently,  his  thumbs  stuck  in  his 
waistcoat  pockets ;  the  Marquis  di  Santa  Marta  was  chatting 
affably  with  the  Honourable  Melillo,  the  strong  financial  man 
from  the  Basilicata,  with  a  heart  too  open  to  women,  a  con- 
firmed celibate,  which  made  him  interesting  in  the  eyes  of 
unmarried  girls,  whom  he  did  not  care  about.  The  Honour- 
able Melillo  answered  Francesco  Sangiorgio's  bow  with  an 
elaborate  salute  and  a  patronizing  wave  of  the  hand,  and 
Sangiorgio  drew  near  the  box  while  his  name  was  being  men- 
tioned. The  Honourable  Melillo  was  no  doubt  speaking  of 
the  bright  promise  his  fellow-countryman  gave. 

The  wife  of  the  Secretary-General  of  Finance  had  arrived 
in  the  box  near  the  door,  after  an  evening  party  at  the 
Quirinal.  This  graceful,  slight  Piedmontese,  with  the  pale, 
interesting  face  of  an  invalid,  wore  a  low-cut  dress,  was  loaded 
with  jewels,  frequently  coughed,  continually  carried  her  pocket- 
handkerchief  to  her  rather  bright  lips,  nervously  pulled  her 
chamois  gloves  up  to  her  elbows.  The  Honourable  Pasta, 
the  Subalpine  lawyer,  with  shaven  chin  and  fair,  grizzled 
whiskers,  was  saying  something  very  witty  to  her,  that  made 
her    laugh.      The    Honourable    Cimbro,    the    Piedmontese 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  127 

journalist-deputy,  staring  through  his  glasses,  his  necktie  having 
slipped  up  under  his  ears,  was  a  man  apparently  embarrassed 
by  his  own  presence,  whereas  the  Secretary-General,  rather 
bald,  with  a  thick,  stout  moustache,  sat  in  solemn  silence, 
looking  at  the  stage  as  if  he  did  not  notice  it.  When  San- 
giorgio  passed,  he  made  him  a  low  bow,  full  of  meaning, 
almost  sentimental,  the  appreciative  bow  of  a  Secretary- 
General  showing  his  gratitude  to  the  man  who  has  afforded 
him  the  pleasure  of  attacking  his  Minister. 

'  Where  may  Sangarzia  be  ?'  thought  Francesco  to  himself, 
threading  his  way  with  difficulty  through  the  ever -increasing 
crowd. 

The  Baroness  Noir  was  in  her  box,  her  serpentine  form 
clad  in  a  strange,  close-fitting  garment  of  shot  silk,  on  which 
tulips  and  peacocks'  feathers  were  embroidered,  and  she  had 
gathered  about  her  a  little  sub-Ministerial  staff  of  foreign 
affairs.  Her  husband  had,  in  fact,  been  Secretary-General. 
He  was  holding  aloof,  at  the  back  of  the  box,  like  a  diplomat 
awaiting  appointment,  but  the  Honourable  di  San  Demetrio,  a 
self-possessed  Abruzzan,  with  an  already  whitening  black 
beard,  who  had  strong  aspirations  towards  the  Cabinet,  was 
well  in  front,  under  the  full  light.  Besides,  there  was  the 
Honourable  di  Campofranco,  a  frigid  Sicilian,  the  son  of 
Italy's  most  prominent  female  politician,  the  Princess  di 
Campofranco.  The  Honourable  di  San  Demetrio  was  talking, 
explaining,  mayhap,  some  section  of  the  Budget  Report,  and 
the  little  Baroness  was  listening  attentively,  slapping  her 
fingers  with  her  fan.  Hustled  by  the  crowd,  Sangiorgio 
stopped  for  a  moment  under  her  box ;  he  felt  fatigued  from 


128  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

head  to  foot,  the  hghts  dazzled  him,  and  the  atmosphere, 
pregnant  with  acrid  odours,  stifled  him. 

*  Sangiorgio  !'  exclaimed  San  Demetrio. 
He  started,  as  if  from  a  dream. 

'  Do  you  know  if  the  Honourable  Mascari  has  registered  to 
speak  on  the  other  side  in  the  debate  on  the  Foreign  Budget  ?' 

*  No,  he  has  not  registered.' 
'  Positively  ?' 

*  Positively.' 

'  Thank  you  ;  excuse  the  question.' 

And  he  went  back  to  his  place,  happy  in  the  knowledge 
that  there  was  to  be  one  opponent  less.  Sangiorgio  stood 
straight  and  motionless  against  the  wall,  feeling  at  ease  in  that 
position  and  shutting  his  eyes  against  the  light.  Seymour  and 
Marchetti  came  up  to  him,  arm-in-arm.  They  presented  a 
marked  contrast,  these  two  apostles  of  social  science :  Seymour, 
dark  and  severe,  with  the  upward  curving  chin  of  a  man  of 
energy  and  a  brush  of  black  hair  beginning  to  streak  with 
white ;  Marchetti,  with  a  frank,  fresh  face,  a  long  chestnut 
beard,  and  the  sparkling  blue  eyes  of  an  enthusiast.  They 
were  both  strolling  about  in  morning  coats,  and  therefore  did 
not  venture  to  speak  to  any  of  the  ladies. 

'  Are  you  bored,  Sangiorgio  ?'  asked  Seymour. 

*  A  little.     I  am  tired,  too.' 

*  Were  you  at  the  office  this  evening  ?'  inquired  Marchetti. 

*  No.    What  was  being  done  there  ?' 

'Nothing  very  substantial  yet — not  much  work,'  remarked 
Seymour,  adjusting  his  glasses  on  his  nose.  *  Why  do  you  not 
have  your  speech  printed,  Sangiorgio  ?' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  129 

'  What  is  the  use  ?'  he  answered  in  a  tone  of  sincere  doubt. 
*  I  shall  return  to  the  charge  in  a  different  way  when  the  Agri- 
cultural Budget  comes  up,'  he  then  went  on,  as  if  reanimated. 

The  orchestra  just  then  struck  up  Strauss*  lively,  inspiriting 
waltz,  'Freuet  euch  des  Lebens,'  a  general  movement  took 
place,  the  circle  spread  outward,  people  were  crowded  back 
under  the  boxes,  the  deputies  were  separated,  and  Sangiorgio 
was  left  alone.  The  ladies  in  the  boxes  were  gazing  down 
enviously  at  the  dancers  enjoying  themselves  below ;  they 
were  obliged  to  sit  still,  up  there,  while  the  music  and  the 
sight  of  the  rest  on  the  floor  made  them  itch  to  join  in  the 
dancing.  Three  or  four,  who  had  come  low-necked  from  a 
ball  at  the  Huffer  House,  were  exhibiting  themselves  in  all  the 
splendours  of  their  dress.  Little  Prince  Nerola  was  now  in 
his  cousin's  box,  the  Countess  di  Genzano,  the  fascinating, 
Titianesque  blonde.  In  the  background  was  to  be  seen  the 
sallow  but  still  handsome  face,  almost  noble  in  outline,  of  the 
Minister  of  Grace  and  Justice,  the  inflexible  and  gallant 
official,  as  unswerving  in  his  inflexibility  as  he  was  in  his 
gallantry.  Sangiorgio  roused  himself  from  the  state  of  torpor 
he  had  fallen  into :  he  must  find  Sangarzia. 

Looking  carefully,  box  for  box,  he  at  last  succeeded  in 
discovering  him  in  the  second  tier,  near  the  royal  box.  A 
domino  in  black  silk,  highly  fashionable,  with  a  tight,  black 
veil  covering  her  head  and  face,  and  wearing  a  large  bunch  of 
pinks,  was  sitting  in  a  front  chair ;  beside  her  was  the  Honour- 
able Valitutti,  a  rich,  olive-hued  Calabrian,  with  a  black  beard 
and  the  face  of  a  taciturn  Arab ;  in  the  background  sat  the 
Honourable  Fraccareta,  one  of  the  largest  corn  merchants  in 

9 


I30  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

the  Puglia  country ;  in  the  middle  was  the  Honourable  San- 
garzia,  the  sympathetic  Sicilian,  the  formidable  swordsman,  the 
perfect  gentleman,  whom  everybody  loved. 

•  Who  might  the  lady  be  ?'  wondered  Sangiorgio,  on  his  way 
up  to  the  second  floor. 

Some  lady,  put  out  at  not  being  able  to  dance,  was  going 
home  in  ill-humour,  letting  her  train  drag,  her  mouth  twisted 
as  a  woman's  is  who  has  been  forbidden  something.  And 
behind  her  came  husband  and  lover,  with  the  thankful  expres- 
sion of  men  who  have  been  bored,  and  who  at  last  hope  to  get 
to  bed.  The  five  black  dominos,  who  had  been  sitting  the 
whole  evening  in  a  box  without  either  moving  or  speaking, 
like  so  many  conspirators,  now  came  down  on  the  arms  of  five 
youths ;  silent,  lugubrious  couples  they  were ;  they  might  have 
been  bound  for  a  funeral  banquet.  Just  behind  them  the 
Honourable  Carusio  descended  the  stairs,  a  deputy  with  a 
head  as  bald  as  a  billiard-ball,  with  an  extravagantly  long, 
pointed,  Napoleonic  beard,  reaching  to  his  stomach,  and  with 
the  air  of  a  timorous,  anxious  person,  full  of  apprehensions 
and  full  of  worries. 

'  My  dear  colleague,'  began  Carusio,  suddenly  stopping  San- 
giorgio on  the  first  landing,  *  excuse  me  if  I  stop  you  like  this ; 
you  must  pardon  me — I  am  in  great  trouble.  A  relative  of 
mine,  from  the  provinces,  who  is  visiting  here,  made  me  come 
to  this  affair,  which  he  had  never  seen.  Imagine  what  a 
dreadful  nuisance !  I  can  scarcely  endure  it.  And  so  the 
Prime  Minister  is  very  ill  ?' 

*  No,  not  very — not  very,'  answered  Sangiorgio,  smiling.  '  It 
is  only  the  gout  he  is  suffering  from.' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  IJI 

'  Are  you  quite  sure,  my  dear  colleague  ?  Is  your  news  at 
least  accurate  ?' 

'  I  went  to  find  out  in  person.' 

'  Oh,  thank  you  ever  so  much,  my  dear  colleague !  I  am 
so  glad  I  met  you.  You  have  relieved  me  from  a  great 
anxiety.  If  the  Prime  Minister  were  to  become  seriously  ill, 
just  think  what  confusion  !  If  he  were  to  die,  what  complica- 
tions !' 

'  God  forbid  !'  said  Sangiorgio,  still  smiling, 

'  Yours  to  command,  my  dear  colleague  :  I  am  delighted  ;  I 
am  infinitely  obliged  to  you.  You  may  count  upon  me  at  any 
time,  I  assure  you ;  do  not  spare  me.  You  could  not  have 
come  to  the  rescue  more  opportunely.  Good-night,  good- 
night, honourable  colleague  !' 

'  Good-night !  I  hope  you  will  sleep  well.  The  Prime 
Minister  will  be  better  to-morrow.' 

*  Thank  you  again,  thank  you.' 

Sangiorgio  knocked  very  gently  at  No.  15.  Fraccareta's 
voice  said  '  Come  in  !'  Sangiorgio  half  opened  the  door,  and 
said: 

*  Excuse  me,  honourable  colleagues  :  I  am  looking  for  the 
Honourable  Sangarzia.' 

'  Here  I  am — here  I  am  !' 

And  they  went  outside  together,  the  black  domino  with  the 
pinks  having  scarcely  turned  her  head. 

'  Nerola,  the  Prince,  wants  you.  Honourable  Sangarzia.' 

'Oh,  my  dear  Sangiorgio,  Nerola  and  yourself  could  not 
have  done  me  a  greater  service !  I  was  at  a  loss  how  to  get 
away  from  here.     And  where  is  the  Prince  ?' 

9—2 


132  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

'  He  is  in  the  first  tier  now,  with  the  Countess  Genzano.* 

'  Let  us  get  there  quickly.' 

He  went  back  into  the  box,  put  on  his  long  cape  over  his 
evening  coat,  bowed  to  the  woman  and  his  two  colleagues,  and 
descended  the  stairs  with  Sangiorgio. 

'  What  a  good  service  you  have  rendered  me !  The  lady 
was  getting  tired  of  it — probably  wanted  to  dance.  Have  you 
come  from  the  Countess's  ?' 

*  I  do  not  know  her.' 

At  this  there  issued  forth  from  a  box  in  the  first  tier  a 
feminine  figure  strangely  attired  in  a  Turkish  costume,  with 
head  and  face  hidden  by  a  close  white  veil. 

*  Come  with  me,'  she  murmured  with  her  soft  voice  to  San- 
giorgio. 

'No  need  to  wish  you  good  luck,  colleague,'  whispered 
Sangarzia,  taking  leave  of  him. 

'  Come  with  me,'  the  woman  repeated,  bearing  on  his  arm 
to  draw  him  away. 

It  was  half-past  two.  People  were  hastening  to  the  cloak- 
rooms to  go  home,  getting  into  their  overcoats  listlessly, 
wrapping  up  their  heads  in  scarfs,  like  so  many  acrobats,  who 
after  performing  in  the  street  put  on  old,  worn  wraps  over  their 
tawdry,  spangled  finery. 

'  Come,  come  !'  urged  the  woman,  seized  with  impatience, 
while  Sangiorgio  was  donning  his  great-coat. 

Outside  she  at  once  singled  out  her  carriage,  and  got  in 
eagerly,  dragging  Sangiorgio  in  after  her. 

-*  Home  I'  she  said  to  the  coachman. 

But  once  in  the  carriage,  behind  the  drawn  blinds,  she 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  133 

quickly  unwound  the  veil  from  her  head  and  threw  it  on  the 
opposite  seat.  She  disencumbered  herself  of  the  Oriental 
garb,  jerking  out  the  pins  and  tearing  at  the  embroidery.  A 
cloak  with  a  hood  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  carriage  ;  this  she 
put  on.  Sangiorgio  silently  assisted  her.  She  looked  out 
into  the  street  for  a  moment. 

'  Ah,  there  is  the  moon  !'  she  murmured  with  great  tender- 
ness. 

And  she  tapped  on  the  pane  to  tell  the  coachman  some- 
thing. Immediately  the  carriage  stopped,  in  the  Piazza  Bar- 
berini.  She  got  out  quickly,  and  pulled  the  hood  on  her  cloak 
over  her  head. 

*  Drive  home  !'  she  ordered  the  coachman.  *  Tell  Carolina 
she  may  go  to  bed.     I  have  the  key.' 

They  were  left  alone  in  the  Piazza  Barberini.  The  stream 
of  the  fountain,  tall  and  translucent,  shone  brightly  in  the 
moonlight. 

'  Shall  we  walk  a  little  ?'  she  said.  *  It  was  suffocating  in 
the  ballroom.' 

He  offered  her  an  arm,  determined  to  show  surprise  at 
nothing.  They  went  along  the  Via  Sistina,  the  great  thorough- 
fare which  looks  so  aristocratic  by  day  and  so  ghostly  at  night. 
She  nestled  up  to  him  as  though  she  was  cold  and  fearsome, 
as  if  she  pretended  to  be  small  and  wanted  his  protection. 
Nevertheless,  she  was  strong  and  tall  in  her  black  cloak, 
and  under  the  hood  where  her  eyes  were  sparkling.  And 
that  person  and  those  eyes  had  the  peculiar  quality  of 
magnetism — the  violent  fascination  that  stirs  the  senses. 
Again  Francesco  Sangiorgio  felt  as  he  had  in  her  drawing- 


134  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

room,  when  she  had  so  ruthlessly  cast  love  into  contempt. 
The  sensation  was  profound  and  sharp,  without  any  sweetness 
whatever — a  revulsion,  a  storm,  a  sort  of  inebriation. 

*  How  quiet  it  is  !'  she  observed,  in  a  voice  slightly  a-tremble, 
which  shook  every  nerve  in  Sangiorgio's  body. 

'  Say  something  else,'  he  whispered. 

'  What  ?'  she  asked,  leaning  against  his  shoulder. 

'  Anything,  anything — I  like  your  voice  so  much  !' 

But  the  Countess  Fiammanti  made  no  answer.  They  had 
arrived  at  the  little  square  of  the  Trinita  dei  Monti.  The 
obelisk  stood  erect  in  the  bright  moonlight,  and  its  tall,  slender 
shadow  was  imprinted  on  the  wall  of  the  church.  The  rising 
road,  leading  to  the  Villa  Medici  and  the  Pincio,  was  quite 
lustrous.  They  bent  over  the  high  parapet  of  the  square, 
whence  so  many  melancholy  visitors  have  gazed  upon  Rome 
in  the  hours  of  twilight.  But  Rome  was  very  dimly  visible, 
shrouded  in  a  white,  moon-washed  vapour,  which  almost 
seemed  a  continuation  of  the  sky,  a  slant  of  the  horizon 
covering  houses,  bell-towers,  and  cupolas. 

'  One  can  see  nothing.  What  a  pity !'  exclaimed  Donna 
Elena.  And,  taking  hold  of  Sangiorgio's  arm  rather  forcibly, 
she  led  him  to  a  narrow  stair  in  front  of  the  Trinitk — not  the  stair 
with  two  balusters  to  the  church,  but  the  steps  going  up  to  the 
convent,  where  the  monks  and  the  children  they  are  educating 
live  together.  This  stairway  has  a  little  landing  before  the  door, 
and  a  railing.     Donna  Elena  made  Sangiorgio  go  up  there. 

•  Shall  we  knock  at  the  convent  ?'  she  asked  him,  as  if 
trying  the  iron  chain.  *  We  are  two  frozen  pilgrims  begging 
for  shelter !' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  135 

She  laughed,  showing  those  resplendent  white  teeth  that 
made  her  smile  so  irresistible.  Only  she  never  smiled,  she 
always  laughed. 

But  neither  was  there  any  view  from  their  elevated  position, 
except  that  the  diaphanous,  whitish,  milky  ocean  of  mist  looked 
larger  yet.  Straight  in  front  were  discernible  the  few  lights, 
which  still  remained  unextinguished  at  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  in  the  Via  Condotti.  Below,  the  Piazza  di  Spagna 
lay  spread  out,  in  its  reposeful  and  magnificent  architectural 
beauty,  from  the  Via  Propaganda  Fide  to  the  Via  Babuino. 

*  Let  us  go  away  from  here,'  she  said. 

He  allowed  himself  to  be  taken  in  leading-strings  ;  this,  his 
first  romantic  adventure,  gave  him  intense  pleasure.  This 
lady,  for  she  was  a  lady  in  spite  of  the  lightness  and  audacity 
of  her  conduct,  aroused  all  the  desires  of  a  virile  man,  pro- 
vincial, imaginative,  and  by  nature  sentimental.  This  was  a 
real  romance,  and  this  fine  lady,  wrapped  in  her  fur  cloak, 
scented,  wearing  magnificent  diamonds  that  glistened  in  the 
moonlight,  who  had  sent  her  carriage  away  so  as  to  walk  with 
him  here,  at  night,  through  the  streets  of  Rome — this  splendid 
creature  seduced  him  by  everything  she  was  and  everything 
she  represented.  He  succumbed  to  her  personal  fascination, 
the  stronger  through  the  peculiarity  of  the  circumstances. 
His  wonted,  ordinary  scruples  were  overcome,  and  he  yielded 
to  this  new  triumph  for  his  vanity,  flattered,  exultant,  and 
delighted  over  his  conquest. 

They  went  down  the  steps  in  the  moonbeams  that  seemed 
to  bathe  the  stones  of  old  Rome.  On  the  last  step  but  two. 
Donna  Elena  withdrew  her  arm  from  Sangiorgio's  and  sat 


136  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

down.  She  now  looked  quite  small  and  black,  cowering  down 
on  the  stair,  with  her  head  in  her  hands  and  her  elbows  on 
her  knees,  as  she  gazed  at  the  lovely  Bernini  fountain,  with 
its  bowl  overbrimming.  Sangiorgio  had  not  seated  himself; 
he  was  standing  upright  by  her  side,  eyeing  her  with  a  sense 
of  masculine  fatuity,  which  filtered  through  his  submissiveness. 
The  pretty  woman  seemed  downcast,  squatting  on  the  ground 
like  a  beggar,  a  bundle  of  dark  clothes,  under  which  perhaps 
an  anxious  soul  was  alive  in  a  throbbing  heart.  And  it  almost 
seemed  to  him  as  though  he  were  her  lord. 

'  Do  you  like  the  fountain  ?'  she  asked  in  her  melodious 
voice,  raising  her  head. 

*  It  is  rather  handsome.' 

'  Yes,  it  is,'  she  agreed  with  a  nod.  '  Why  do  you  not  sit 
down  ?' 

And  she  appeared  not  to  be  addressing  him,  but  speaking  to 
the  purling  waters,  which  for  ever  fell  back  into  the  drowned 
bowl.     He  sat  down  on  the  step  beside  her. 

'  Have  you  no  cigars  ?    Will  you  not  smoke  a  little  ?' 

*  I  am  sorry  I  have  no  cigarettes  for  you.' 

'  Never  mind.  But  you  smoke  !'  He  lighted  a  cigar,  and 
she  inhaled  its  aroma. 

« What  brand  is  it  ?' 

'  A  Minghetti.' 

'Your  Minghetti  has  a  nice  odour.'  And  she  watched  him 
smoke,  following  the  thin,  blue  streak  as  it  vanished  into  the 
air.  A  closed  carriage  emerged  from  the  Via  Due  Macelli, 
passed  them  with  extreme  rapidity,  and  disappeared  in  the 
direction  of  the  Via  Babuino. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  137 

*  They  are  coming  from  the  ball,'  he  said. 

*  What  a  hideous  affair  that  ball  was !'  whispered  Donna 
Elena  softly. 

'  Yes/  replied  Sangiorgio  to  the  harmonious  voice  by  whose 
caress  he  felt  his  nerves  excited  to  the  point  of  painfulness. 

Suddenly  she  jumped  to  her  feet,  as  if  propelled  by  a  spring. 

'  I  am  cold,  I  am  cold;  let  us  be  off!'  she  exclaimed  roughly. 

She  folded  her  cloak  more  tightly  about  her  than  ever,  pulled 
her  hood  further  forward  over  her  forehead,  clung  to  his  arm, 
and  dragged  him  away,  towards  the  Via  Propaganda.  He  had 
thrown  his  cigar  down,  and  all  at  once  was  conscious  that  this 
woman's  mind  was  changing,  and  that  he  could  not  count  on 
her  at  all.  But  he  proudly  kept  his  peace.  Probably  his 
vanity  had  been  an  empty  fiction.  Who  could  reckon  on  the 
caprice  of  a  woman  ?  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  laughing  at 
himself,  who  for  a  moment  had  believed  he  might  master  one 
of  these  frivolous  creatures. 

She  uttered  not  a  word,  hastening  her  pace  along  the  Via 
Due  Macelli,  as  though  greatly  affected  by  the  cold  and  in- 
tending to  overcome  it  by  walking ;  she  stared  at  the  ground, 
without  turning  to  her  companion.  Sangiorgio  did  not  ask 
her  whither  they  were  bound  in  this  fashion  ;  he  was  resolved 
to  stay  with  her  till  the  end,  despite  the  blow  she  was  giving 
his  pride.  When  they  reached  the  corner  of  the  Via  Due 
Macelli,  she  turned  abruptly  into  the  Via  Angelo  Custode. 

*  I  live  here,'  he  observed,  for  the  sake  of  saying  something. 

*  Here  ?'  she  cried,  stopping  still  for  a  moment.     *  Where  T 
'  At  No.  50 — over  there.' 

'  Do  you  live  alone  ?' 


138  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

*  I  do.' 

*  Let  us  go  up,'  she  said,  making  a  motion  to  cross  the  street. 
*  I  will  warm  myself  at  your  fire !' 

•There  is  no  fire.' 

*  No  matter ;  I  will  warm  myself  playing  the  piano !' 

'  There  is  no  piano,'  he  replied,  determined  to  hear  her  out. 
'  I  don't  care  !'  was  all  she  said. 

♦  *  ♦  *  ♦ 

Two  days  later  Francesco  Sangiorgio  was  elected  a  member 
of  the  Budget  Committee. 


CHAPTER  III 

Mild,  genteel  applause,  coming  from  small,  female,  well-gloved, 
though  rather  listless  hands,  greeted  the  noisy  conclusion  of 
the  pianist,  an  insignificant,  meagre,  dark  little  dot  of  a 
creature,  who  was  invisible  behind  the  piano. 

'  What  feeling !'  exclaimed  the  wife  of  a  Puglian  deputy,  a 
stout  woman  with  a  torrent  of  black  curls  on  her  red,  shining 
forehead. 

'  Splendid,  splendid,  delightful !'  said  Signora  di  Bertrand, 
the  wife  of  a  high  functionary,  a  frail  Piedmontese,  with  a 
Madonna  face,  wearing  a  brocaded  cloak  threaded  with  gold. 

And  from  one  lady  to  another,  from  group  to  group,  along 
sofas,  from  easy-chairs  to  small  stools,  under  the  palm  branches 
in  the  pots,  under  the  brackets  bearing  statuettes,  from  the 
pianoforte  to  the  door,  swiftly  ran  the  current  of  feminine 
approval.  Those  standing  on  the  threshold  of  the  Ministerial 
drawing-room  nodded  two  or  three  times,  as  if  secretly  wearied. 
Only  His  Highness,  the  Oriental  Prince  in  exile,  ponderously 
ensconced  in  an  armchair,  made  no  sign.  With  his  bloated, 
sallow  visage,  grown  here  and  there  with  patches  of  nonde- 
script, speckling  beard,  with  the  contemplative  apathy  of  a 
bulky  Oriental,  he  remained  quiet,  thinking  perhaps  of  the 
dramatic  incantations  of  the  Aidas  who  had  been  one  of  the 


140  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

boasts  of  his  throne,  as  he  sat  with  his  big,  round  eyes  halt 
shut  under  the  soft,  red  rim  of  his  fez. 

But  the  female  chatter  reopened,  and  Donna  Luisa  Catalani, 
the  Minister's  wife,  the  mistress  of  the  house,  who  had  rested 
during  the  music,  renewed  her  round  of  bows  and  compliments 
and  smiles ;  and  her  white  cashmere  gown,  her  diamond 
rosettes,  her  small  head,  her  provokingly  pretty  face,  her  some- 
what peculiar  headdress,  were  to  be  seen  everywhere,  as  though 
there  was  not  one  Donna  Luisa,  but  ten  of  her. 

*  How  fatiguing  these  receptions  are !'  languidly  said  the 
Countess  Schwarz,  an  extremely  thin  woman,  with  livid 
countenance,  with  fluffy  fringe,  in  imitation,  probably,  of  Sarah 
Bernhardt.  Sunk  in  a  comfortable  easy-chair,  and  huddled  in 
her  furs  like  a  sick,  shivering  bird,  she  merely  moved  her  lips 
to  sip  her  cup  of  tea. 

*  Donna  Luisa  is  not  tired  j  she  is  made  of  iron,'  murmured 
Signora  Gallenga,  wife  of  the  Secretary-General  of  Finance, 
coughing  slightly  and  smoothing  her  pointed,  Chinese  eye- 
brows. '  It  would  be  too  much  for  me.  I  am  glad  my 
receptions  are  small.  Were  you  at  the  Parliament  to-day, 
Countess  ?' 

'  I  never  go.' 

The  graceful  Piedmontese  saw  the  error  of  her  question. 
Count  Schwarz  had  succeeded  in  becoming  a  provincial 
councillor,  but  never  a  deputy. 

'  I  was  there,'  interposed  Signora  Mattei,  the  wife  of  another 
Secretary-General,  a  Tuscan  woman  as  brown  as  a  peppercorn, 
with  fiery  eyes,  a  rapid  tongue,  and  a  black  hat  buried  under 
poppies.     '  It  was  an  interesting  meeting.' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  141 

*  And  not  to  have  been  there  !'  exclaimed  Signora  Gallenga. 
'  How  unfortunate  !     And  did  Sangiorgio  speak  ?' 

*  Yes,  yes ' 

But  a  '  hush '  now  circulated  through  the  room.  A  robust 
lady,  with  a  mighty  bosom  tightly  cuirassed  in  red  satin,  with 
a  broad,  good-natured  face,  sang  a  moving  romance  by  Tosti. 
She  had  undone  her  pelisse,  throwing  it  back  on  her  shoulders, 
and  with  her  hands  in  her  muff,  her  veil  down  on  her  eyes, 
quite  serenely,  without  a  single  quiver  in  a  line  of  her  face,  she 
poured  out  her  lamentations  in  the  music  of  the  Abruzzan 
master.  Donna  Luisa,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  drawing- 
room  among  fifty  ladies  seated,  listened  with  the  polite  atten- 
tion of  a  hostess ;  but  she  was  assailed  by  an  uneasy  feeling, 
since  she  observed  that  in  the  two  adjoining  parlours  there 
were  people — ladies  waiting  to  come  in.  It  was  the  most 
important  reception  of  the  season  ;  in  the  drawing-room  reigned 
the  quiet  of  a  hothouse  and  the  sweet,  sugary  smell  of  a  place 
where  there  are  many  women.  Standing  along  the  wall, 
encased  in  severe  frock-coats,  was  a  row  of  commanders,  bald 
and  silent,  who  had  left  the  Court  of  Accounts  at  half-past  four, 
of  officials  from  the  Treasury,  of  men  from  other  Government 
offices.  But  they  preserved  the  statuesque  immobility  of  the 
bureaucratic  make-up,  the  unwearying  patience,  the  endless, 
incalculably  long  expectation  by  dint  of  which  they  passed  from 
one  grade  to  another,  until  they  had  forty  years  of  service 
behind  them ;  to  them  this  reception  was  an  infinitesimal 
fraction  of  the  forty  years  of  service. 

A  sigh  of  relief  was  audible ;  the  romance  was  finished,  and 
Luisa  Catalani  complimented  the  singer,  who  was  smiling  like 


142  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

the  full  moon.  Then  the  hostess  immediately  left  the  room  ; 
there  were  seven  or  eight  ladies  in  the  next  room. 

'  What  was  the  Chamber  like  to-day  ?'  asked  a  fair,  pale- 
faced  Minister's  daughter,  who  had  newly  arrived. 

*  Very  warm.  I  do  not  understand  how  our  men  keep  from 
getting  ill,'  replied  another,  spreading  out  her  fan  by  way  of 
original  illustration. 

*  Sangiorgio  spoke  very  well,'  murmured  Signora  Giroux,  a 
little  lady  with  white  hair  and  a  sweet  smile — her  ladyship  of 
the  Agricultural  Department. 

'  He  is  from  the  South,'  remarked  Donna  Luisa  Catalani. 
*  Was  there  anyone  in  the  diplomatic  gallery  ?' 
'  Countess  di  Santaninfa  and  Countess  di  Malgra.' 
'Fine  hats?' 

*  Might  pass,'  answered  the  pallid  blonde  abstractedly. 
Over  in  a  corner  a  group  of  girls  was  prattling  in  lively 

fashion,  with  their  jackets  unbuttoned  because  of  the  heat, 
and  showing  the  fine  texture  of  their  dark  cloth  dresses. 
Enrichetta  Serafini,  daughter  of  the  Minister  of  Public  Works, 
a  brunette  in  mourning,  was  talking  for  half  a  dozen,  and 
gathered  about  her  were  the  Camilly  girl,  an  Italian  born  in 
Egypt ;  the  Borla  girl,  a  predestined  old  maid,  condemned 
by  the  everlasting  youth  of  her  mother;  the  Fasulo  girl,  a 
lymphatic  person,  with  large,  meditative  eyes,  an  accountant's 
niece ;  the  AUievo  girl,  a  nice,  quiet  thing ;  and  the  single 
aristocratic  bud,  all  fair  under  the  white  plume  in  her  hat — 
Donna  Sofia  di  Maccarese. 

'  I  prefer  Tosti  to  all  the  rest,'  maintained  Enrichetta  Sera- 
fini.    '  He  can  make  one  weep.' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  143 

*  Denza,  too,  makes  one  weep  at  times,'  observed  the  Borla 
girl,  who  did  not  know  how  to  sing,  and  was  obliged  to  listen 
to  her  fifty-year-old  mother. 

*  And  you,  Donna  Sofia,  which  do  you  like  best  ?' 

*  Schumann,*  she  murmured,  without  another  word. 

The  others  stopped.  They  did  not  know  his  music.  But 
the  Serafina  girl,  nervous  and  vivacious,  answered  : 

'But  all  that  music  must  be  sung  well.  Pardon  me' — 
lowering  her  voice — *  perhaps  you  like  the  lady  who  has  just 
sung  ?'    And  the  whole  group  giggled  surreptitiously. 

*  The  best  singer  in  Rome  is  the  Fiammanti,'  added  the 
young  Camilly  girl,  with  her  round,  white  face,  with  her  languid 
gaze — this  Oriental  transplanted  to  Italy. 

The  other  girls  remained  silent.  The  Borla  pursed  her  lips 
in  token  of  reproof;  the  Fasulo  cast  down  her  eyes;  the 
Allievo  blushed;  only  Donna  Sofia  di  Maccarese  did  not 
change  countenance,  either  not  knowing  or  not  caring  about 
Countess  Fiammanti. 

'  Is  it  true  that  she  is  to  marry  the  deputy  Sangiorgio  ?' 
asked  the  Serafini. 

*  No,  no,'  replied  the  Camilly,  with  a  peculiar  smile. 

This  time  the  girls  exchanged  the  mute,  expressive  looks 
into  which  society  compels  girls  to  condense  their  meaning. 
In  the  drawing-room  a  great  concourse  of  ladies  had  gathered  ; 
the  warm  atmosphere  of  heavy  clothes  was  spreading,  and  an 
odour  of  tea  and  opopanax,  of  beaver  and  marten.  Nearly  all 
of  them  were  talking  now,  in  couples,  or  in  groups  of  three  or 
four,  with  certain  nods  and  certain  subtle  modulations  of  the 
voice,  gossiping  about  the  Chamber  of  Deputies,  gravely  dis- 


144  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

cussing  the  Honourable  Bomba's  delivery,  saying  which  gallery 
they  liked  best,  commenting  on  the  colour  of  the  carpets, 
describing  the  flesh-coloured  waistcoats  of  the  Honourable 
Count  Lapucci  and  the  romantic  face — like  a  pensive  Christ's 
— of  the  Honourable  Joanna.  And  Signora  Gallenga,  an 
authority  on  literature,  announced  the  following  : 

•  This  year  the  Abruzzo  is  fashionable  in  literature  and  the 
Basilicata  in  politics.' 

So  they  thought  they  were  doing  politics  in  right  earnest, 
elated  by  their  own  chatter,  they,  with  their  light  little  heads. 
But  no  other  performer  moved  to  the  piano,  and  as  the  placid, 
middle-aged  lady  who  had  languished  with  Tosti  was  taking 
her  third  cup  of  tea,  a  hardly  perceptible  stir  took  place  in 
the  drawing-room,  and  Donna  Angelica  Vargas,  tall  and 
lovely,  walked  across  the  room  with  her  rhythmic  step,  seeking 
out  Donna  Luisa  Catalani.  She  was  dressed  in  black,  as 
usual,  with  an  iridescence  of  some  sort  about  her  person  and 
her  hat.  Donna  Luisa  ran  towards  her  with  her  prettiest  smile. 
They  made  low  bows  to  each  other,  and  a  subdued  colloquy 
began  between  them. 

The  people  in  the  room  pretended  not  to  hear,  from  polite- 
ness, but  an  embarrassing  silence  prevailed,  as  sometimes 
happens  among  a  number  of  persons  none  of  whom  wants  to 
speak  first.  His  Highness  Mehemet  Pasha  had  opened  his 
eyes  wide,  and  ogled  the  beautiful  Italian,  so  chaste  in  appear- 
ance, but  whose  large  eyes  reminded  him  of  his  Eastern 
women,  for  whom  he  perhaps  was  longing.  Then  those  large, 
fine  eyes,  shining  like  the  black  pearls  on  her  dress,  cast  an 
intelligent  glance  all  round  the  room,  and  as  Donna  Luisa 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  145 

Catalani  turned  away,  singly,  by  twos,  by  threes  did  the  women 
come  and  surround  Donna  Angelica  Vargas,  to  exchange 
amenities  with  her ;  and  although  her  husband  was  not  Prime 
Minister,  although  she  was  the  wife  of  a  Minister  of  Commerce 
holding  a  non-political  portfolio,  although  in  that  drawing- 
room  were  three  or  four  wives  of  political  Ministers,  important 
men,  pillars  of  the  Cabinet,  yet  she  was  the  centre  of  all  this 
adulation,  and  in  the  simplicity  of  her  manner  there  lay  some- 
thing queenly. 

To  feel  the  cold  less,  while  writing  in  that  long,  narrow 
parlour,  without  a  fire,  in  the  Via  Angelo  Custode,  Sangiorgio 
had  thrown  an  old  coat  over  his  legs.  At  eight  the  servant 
had  brought  him  a  cup  of  coffee,  in  bed,  and  while  she  was 
cleaning  the  chilly  room  he  put  on  his  clothes,  so  as  to  begin 
work.  The  girl  did  the  other  room  quickly,  and  went  away 
without  a  word,  looking  sullen  and  resentful,  like  all  poor 
wretches  who  cannot  reconcile  themselves  to  penury  and  hard 
work.  But  the  sweeping  being  done  in  haste,  dirt  remained 
in  the  corners  of  the  floor.  The  window-curtains  were  yellow 
with  dust,  and  a  horrible  smell  of  stale  rubbish  hung  in  both 
rooms.  Barely  had  the  servant  vanished,  trailing  her  feet  in  a 
pair  of  men's  shoes,  when  Sangiorgio,  without  a  look  at  that 
melancholy  inner  courtyard,  with  balconies  full  of  old  boxes 
and  broken  glass,  and  worm-eaten,  filthy  loggias,  set  to  writing 
at  a  small  student's  table.  He  had  settled  down  to  work, 
among  a  lot  of  Parliamentary  papers  and  a  heap  of  letters  from 
the  Basilicata,  on  large,  white  sheets  of  commercial  foolscap, 
dipping  his  pen  into  a  wretched  clay  inkpot.     Towards  ten 

10 


146  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

o'clock  an  intolerable  sensation  of  cold  had  crept  over  his  feet 
and  legs  ;  he  still  had  three  hours'  work  before  him,  and  there- 
fore went  to  his  bedroom  for  an  old  overcoat,  which  he  spread 
over  his  legs.  He  did  this  automatically,  without  taking  his 
mind  off  the  Parliamentary  report  which  had  absorbed  him 
for  a  week.  The  fire  that  burned  within  him  was  manifest  in 
the  large,  clear  handwriting  with  which  he  covered  the  big  sheets 
of  paper ;  his  preoccupation  showed  plainly  in  his  face,  in  his — 
as  it  were — introspective  glance,  ignoring  all  things  external. 

Sheets  of  paper  were  now  heaping  up  at  his  left ;  he  did  not 
stop  writing  except  to  refer  to  Parliamentary  Blue-books,  or  to 
consult  a  fat  volume  of  agricultural  reports,  or  a  dirty,  little, 
torn  notebook.  At  eleven,  as  he  was  engrossed  in  his  task, 
the  slight  grating  of  a  key  was  heard,  and  a  woman  entered, 
closing  the  door  noiselessly  behind  her. 

*  It  is  I,'  she  said  softly,  clasping  a  bunch  of  roses  to  her 
breast.  He  lifted  his  head,  and  stared  at  her  with  the  be- 
wildered eyes  of  one  not  yet  sufficiently  aroused  from  his 
employment  to  recognise  a  new-comer. 

*  Do  I  disturb  you  ?'  asked  Elena,  with  her  flutelike  voice. 
'  Yes,  yes,  I  am  disturbing  you  !  Go  on  with  your  writing — 
do  your  work.     I  will  read  a  book.' 

*  There  are  no  books  here  you  would  like,'  he  replied,  not 
remembering  to  thank  her  for  having  come. 

She  rummaged  among  the  papers  with  her  slender  hands, 
gloved  in  black  and  hampered  by  the  bunch  of  roses.  San- 
giorgio  smiled  at  her  complacently.  She  was  always  so 
fascinating,  with  those  heavy  lips  of  hers,  red  and  moist,  with 
those  strange  eyes  of  indefinable  colour,  with  that  graceful 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  147 

opulence  of  figure,  that  even  to  look  at  her,  to  have  her  present, 
here,  in  his  own  room,  was  always  a  new  delight  to  him. 

'There  is  nothing  there !'  she  laughed.  '  I  could  never  read 
about  the  quantity  of  polenta  the  peasants  of  Lombardy  eat, 
and  how  many  potatoes  the  Southerners.  That  would  make 
me  too  melancholy.  Do  your  writing — do  your  writing,  Franz ; 
do  not  mind  me.' 

And  he  got  up,  and  went  over  to  kiss  her  on  the  eyes, 
through  her  thin  veil,  as  she  liked  it ;  she  made  a  face  like  a 
greedy  child  receiving  a  sweetmeat.  He  returned  to  his  writing. 
Elena  walked  up  and  down  in  the  parlour,  as  if  trying  to  get 
warm  :  in  this  room,  on  this  bleak  March  day,  it  was  freezing. 

'  Are  you  not  cold,  Franz  ?'  asked  Elena  from  the  sofa, 
whence  she  was  curiously  eyeing  the  pictures  on  the  hooks. 

'  A  little,'  he  answered,  without  ceasing  from  his  writing. 

She  again  reviewed  the  room  in  all  its  squalor,  realized  in 
what  a  state  of  decent  poverty  he  existed,  and  watched  him, 
writing  so  swiftly  at  that  little  table,  where  he  was  obliged  to 
draw  in  his  elbows  so  as  not  to  brush  the  papers  over  the  edge. 
And  into  the  eyes  of  the  woman  watching  the  tireless  worker 
came  a  new  light  of  tenderness  which  he  did  not  see. 

Now  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece,  she  reviewed  her  sur- 
roundings, first  examining  the  three  photographs  of  a  corporal, 
a  stout  gentleman,  and  a  boy  belonging  to  the  Nazzareno 
school,  and  then  the  three  libellous  oleographs  representing 
the  Royal  Family. 

'Franz,  have  you  ever  had  your  photograph  taken?'  she 
inquired,  looking  at  herself  in  the  mirror,  and  adjusting  the 
bow  on  her  hat. 


148  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

'Yes,  at  Naples  once,  when  I  was  a  student,'  he  answered, 
turning  over  some  Parliamentary  records. 

*  And  have  you  it  now  ?' 
'  No,  of  course  not.' 

'  If  you  had  it,  I  should  want  it,'  she  insinuated  in  a  voice 
like  a  child's. 

'  Is  the  original  not  enough  for  you  ?' 

'No,'  was  Elena's  reflective  response.  He  got  up  again, 
came  over  and  took  her  hands,  and  asked  her  : 

*  Then,  you  like  me  ?' 

'  Yes — yes — yes,'  she  sang  on  three  musical  notes. 

Francesco  returned  to  the  table,  where  he  resumed  his  work. 
She  hazarded  a  step  to  the  threshold  of  his  bedroom,  and  cast 
a  glance  inside. 

*  Franz,'  said  she,  '  you  did  not  come  to  the  Valle  last  night.' 
'There  was  the  Budget  Committee  up  till  eleven.     After- 
wards I  was  too  tired.' 

'  A  number  of  people  came  to  see  me  in  my  box — Giustini, 
for  instance.     How  do  you  come  to  be  so  intimate  with  him  ?' 

'  He  is  useful  to  me,'  he  answered  simply,  without  looking  up. 

'  He  speaks  ill  of  you.' 

'  I  hope  so.' 

'  To  be  sure,  he  never  praises  anyone  but  mediocrities.  You 
will  become  a  great  statesman,  Franz  !' 

'  Oh,  that  will  take  a  long  time,'  he  replied  tranquilly,  noting 
down  some  figures  on  a  small  piece  of  paper. 

'  Gallenga  and  Oldofredi  came,  too.  Oldofredi  makes  love 
to  me.* 

'  Quite  right  of  Oldofredi,'  he  murmured  gallantly. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  149 

She  laughed,  and  vanished  into  the  adjoining  room.  It  was 
so  cold  and  ugly  that  for  a  moment  she  shrank  back  in  repulsion. 
She  scanned  the  woollen  arabesques  on  the  bedquilt,  which 
the  servant  had  given  a  furious  shaking.  But  it  was  the  large 
grease-spot  on  the  blue-cloth  easy-chair  which  caused  her  to 
turn  her  head ;  her  feminine  instincts  made  her  wince  at  that 
grease-spot.  She  walked  about  the  room  in  search  of  an  un- 
available article  :  on  the  chest  of  drawers  were  only  two  candle- 
sticks without  candles  and  a  clothes-brush,  and  nothing  that 
would  serve  her  purpose;  on  the  toilet-table  were  only  two 
combs  and  a  broken  bottle  of  Felsina  water.  The  place  was 
as  bare  as  a  hermit's  cell.  At  last  she  descried,  on  the  stand 
near  the  bed,  a  water-bottle  and  glass,  and,  beaming  with 
pleasure,  untied  her  bundle  of  roses,  thrust  three  or  four  into 
the  neck  of  the  decanter,  a  few  into  the  cup,  dropped  a 
handful  on  the  coverlet  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  then,  being 
at  a  loss  where  to  put  any  more,  stuffed  two  under  the  pillow. 
Moving  cautiously,  she  went  back  to  the  chest  of  drawers,  and 
opened  the  top  drawer,  which  contained  neckties  and  gloves  ; 
here,  too,  she  left  some  of  her  roses.  A  portrait  lay  thrown  in 
there,  still  in  its  envelope.  It  was  her  own.  A  light  shadow 
of  displeasure  flitted  across  her  face,  and  quickly  disappeared. 
In  that  miserable  room,  in  that  murky  light  that  came  from 
the  courtyard,  in  that  stench  of  kitchen  slops,  the  roses  gave 
out  a  vernal  freshness,  the  essence  of  a  garden,  a  remembrance 
of  sunlight,  an  atom  of  fragrance. 

'  I  have  finished,'  said  Sangiorgio,  appearing  in  the  doorway. 

'  Let  us  go  home  to  lunch.' 

'  Do  you  think  we  shall  have  done  by  half-past  one  ?' 


150  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

'Why?' 

'  I  have  an  appointment  with  a  constituent.' 

'  Well,  I  hope  so,  as  I  also  have  an  appointment — at  two.' 

'  With  a  constituent  ?' 

'  With  Oldofredi.' 

'  Indeed,'  he  answered,  putting  on  his  overcoat. 

*  He  is  to  tell  me  how  he  came  to  be  unwilling  to  marry 
Angelica  Vargas.' 

*  Was  he  intending  to  marry  her  ?' 

*Yes,  and  he  did  not  want  to.  Perhaps,  though,  it  was  she 
who  refused.  Nearly  everyone  dislikes  Oldofredi,  especially 
in  Parliament.     Do  you  know  him  ?' 

'  No ;  I  am  not  interested  in  him.' 

'  You  are  quite  pale  ;  what  is  the  matter  ?' 

*  I  don't  know ;  probably  it  is  the  cold.' 

'  Come,  come  away  to  my  house ;  there  is  a  fire  there,  and 
you  can  warm  yourself !' 

He  accompanied  her,  without  saying  a  word  about  the  roses. 
***** 

The  Honourable  Oldofredi  was  not  a  particularly  assiduous 
frequenter  of  the  Parliamentary  library.  He  occasionally  went 
there  to  look  for  a  friend,  but  did  not  read  ;  he  never  asked  for 
books  or  papers.  Malicious  tongues  among  the  deputies, 
forsooth,  had  it  that  he  did  not  know  how  to  read.  Now,  as 
he  entered  the  library  that  day,  and  found  Sangiorgio  seated 
in  front  of  a  veritable  mountain  of  books,  flying  through 
statistical  works,  skimming  over  the  pages  of  volumes  of 
political  economy,  history,  and  social  science  with  that  im- 
petuosity in  research  and  preparation  which  characterizes  the 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  151 

provincial  Southerner,  at  the  sight  of  this  the  fatuous  Oldofredi 
smiled  disdainfully.  He  had  first  put  his  head  in  at  the  door, 
to  see  if  it  was  the  colleague  he  was  in  search  of;  then, 
prompted  by  some  new  idea,  he  went  in,  although  he  had  not 
seen  his  friend.  He  began  to  saunter  idly  up  and  down, 
blowing  the  remains  of  a  cigarette  out  of  a  small  amber  mouth- 
piece. The  Honourable  Oldofredi,  despite  his  reputation  as 
a  Don  Juan  and  a  swashbuckler,  was  neither  a  handsome  nor 
a  powerful  man ;  he  was  a  machine  of  bones  and  sinews  badly 
put  together,  the  whole  of  his  elongated  person  had  an  un- 
pleasant, battered  appearance,  his  face  was  of  a  repulsively 
cadaverous  hue ;  in  his  eyes  lay  vacant  stupidity,  and  all  his 
limbs  were  so  disjointed  as  to  make  him  look  like  a  perambu- 
lating automaton. 

Sangiorgio,  from  the  moment  he  rested  his  eyes  on  him, 
could  not  take  them  away  again.  A  sort  of  irritating  fascina- 
tion drew  the  Basilicatan's  attention  from  the  statistics  and  the 
works  on  political  economy,  and  attracted  him  to  the  deputy 
from  the  Marches,  whom  he  detested  and  hated  through  some 
vague  instinct  of  sectionalism,  lover's  jealousy,  and  ambition. 
While  Oldofredi  walked  to  and  fro,  he  stared  at  him  fixedly, 
holding  his  pen  over  the  paper.  This  Don  Quixote,  disUked 
by  the  whole  Chamber,  hateful  to  all  the  women,  ignorant, 
stupid,  and  devoid  of  ability,  who  with  all  these  forbidden  quali- 
ties had  nevertheless  always  been  successful  in  his  re-election, 
in  having  himself  talked  about,  and  in  holding  a  position  of 
prominence  in  political  and  social  life — this  man  weighed  on 
Sangiorgio's  stomach  like  some  indigestible  food  to  which 
repugnance  is  instinctive.     Oldofredi  was  a  political   sword- 


152  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

swallower.  His  duels  were  no  longer  a  topic  of  conversation, 
unless  in  a  vague  way,  as  if  about  something  doubtful  and 
distant,  because  it  was  so  many  years  since  anyone  had  ven- 
tured to  challenge  him.  But  no  personal  dispute  could  happen 
in  which  he  was  not  concerned  as  second,  or  arbiter,  or  adviser, 
and  neither  inside  the  Chamber  nor  out  of  it  was  there  a 
surer  or  readier  authority  on  fighting.  This  endowed  this 
coarse,  commonplace  individual  with  a  halo  of  romance,  and 
in  the  annals  of  gossip  it  was  stated  that  women  were  prompt 
to  lay  their  wavering  virtue  at  the  feet  of  this  Orlando  of  the 
Marches,  who  in  their  eyes  could  be  counted  on  as  a  for- 
midable champion  to  cover  their  transgressions. 

'  Have  you  seen  friend  Bomba  by  chance.  Honourable 
Sangiorgio  ?'  queried  Oldofredi,  stopping  opposite  the  writer. 

*  I  ?    No,'  replied  the  other  curtly,  raising  his  head. 

'  Where  can  he  be  hiding  ?  He  is  not  in  the  hall ;  that 
ass  of  a  Borgonero  was  making  a  speech  there  about  some 
foolery  or  other.  I  have  been  looking  for  Bomba  everywhere. 
He  can  only  be  here,  in  the  company  of  that  idiot  of  a  Giordano 
Bruno.     Do  you,  Sangiorgio,  believe  Giordano  Bruno  existed?' 

'  I  ?  yes,'  he  answered  dryly. 

Sangiorgio  gave  Oldofredi  a  frigid  stare,  which  would  have 
baffled  a  less  conceited  talker.  But  he  continued  to  walk  up 
and  down,  with  his  nose  in  the  air.  He  lighted  another 
cigarette,  making  a  noisy  rustle  with  his  long,  ugly,  ungainly 
person,  which  disturbed  the  quiet  of  that  studious  place.  In 
the  little  adjoining  room  at  the  right  the  Honourable  Gasperini, 
the  white-bearded  Tuscan  with  a  subtle  smile  and  a  pair  of 
sharp  eyes  behind  his  spectacles,  had  akeady  looked  up  twice 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  153 

in  the  midst  of  his  perusal  of  some  financial  thesis ;  he  had 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  annoyed  at  Oldofredi's  obtrusiveness 
Arrived  at  the  other  door,  which  opened  into  the  room  on  the 
left,  he  stood  still  on  the  threshold,  and  leaned  against  the 
jamb,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  In  this  room  the 
Honourable  Giroux,  a  slow,  grave  old  gentleman  with  half- 
closed  lids  and  sleepy  look,  was  reading  in  a  large  tome  bound 
in  parchment.  Oldofredi  smiled ;  then,  returning  to  San- 
giorgio's  table,  accosted  him  with  another  sneer  : 

'  He  is  in  there,  you  know,  with  Copernic' 

'  Who  ?'  asked  the  other,  with  the  same  studied  coldness. 

*  Giroux.  Not  satisfied  with  bothering  people  about  his  own 
philosophical  absurdities,  he  has  invented  some  for  Copernic. 
Who  may  this  Copernic  be?  Pah  !  Giroux  will  swear  he 
knew  him  in  Turin,  and  that  he  was  a  carbonaro !' 

And  Oldofredi  burst  out  laughing.  But  he  did  not  see  the 
strong  and  set  expression  of  displeasure  in  Sangiorgio's  face ; 
he  did  not  observe  the  slight  nervous  tremble  which  made  the 
pen  dance  between  the  Southern  deputy's  fingers. 

'  And  over  on  the  other  side  is  Gasperini,  the  ex-secretary, 
who  certainly  is  reading  the  proceedings  of  the  British  Parlia- 
ment, so  as  to  be  able  to  argue  against  Giroux  to-morrow. 
What  do  you  think  of  it  ?' 

'  Nothing.' 

'  Well,  I  shall  pick  up  Gasperini  with  two  fingers,  and  put 
him  into  Giroux's  arms ;  then  their  reconciliation  will  be 
accomplished,  Copernic  and  Bentham  will  bless  them,  and 
Italian  finance — and  agriculture,  too — will  go  on  in  the  same 
way  as  before — that  is  to  say,  as  badly  as  possible.' 


154  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

This  he  announced  in  a  loud  voice,  not  caring  whether  the 
others  overheard  him.  Sangiorgio  glanced  at  both  doors,  as 
though  signifying  his  apprehension. 

'  No,  they  are  not  listening.  When  Giroux  is  with  Copernic 
he  hears  nothing,  and  Gasperini  is  befogged  in  English  finance. 
And  what  if  they  did  hear  !' 

He  made  his  favourite  motion  of  defiance  with  his  shoulders, 
one  of  the  gestures  which  had  won  him  the  reputation  of  being 
a  brave  man. 

*  They  might  answer  you,*  replied  Sangiorgio  in  an  equivocal 
tone. 

'  Oh  no  !  they  would  not  answer  at  all !  More  likely  they 
would  make  a  note  of  it,  and  remind  me  of  it  at  a  future  time, 
in  the  hall,  in  a  lobby,  or  in  a  newspaper.  That's  the  way  in 
politics.  Or  probably  they  would  try  to  forget  to  do  even  that, 
as  so  many  others  have  forgotten.  You  seem  to  be  new  here  ; 
you  have  a  great  deal  left  to  learn.  One  thing,  my  dear  sir,  I 
can  inform  you  of  myself :  in  politics  one  must  never  reply  imme- 
diately, to  a  man's  face,  directly.  Either  one  forgets  or  one  waits.' 

'  And  supposing  you  should  get  an  immediate  answer  ?'  re- 
joined Sangiorgio  more  glacially  than  ever. 

*  What !  Imagine,  my  dear  new  deputy,  that  for  five  years 
in  these  precincts  I  have  gone  about  saying  the  whole  truth 
to  everybody  concerning  facts,  men,  and  events,  at  the  top  of 
my  voice,  merely  to  relieve  my  liver.  Has  anyone  had  the 
courage  to  defend  himself,  to  answer  me  to  my  face?  No 
one  has — no  one,  my  dear  new  deputy  !' 

'  And  how  is  that  ?'  said  Sangiorgio,  his  eyes  rooted  to  the 
paper  he  had  been  writing  upon,  as  if  in  reflection. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  155 

'  Come,  now  !  It  is  because  the  old  ones  have  exhausted 
their  whole  supply  of  courage — if  they  ever  had  any — and  the 
young  ones  have  not  yet  begun  to  draw  on  theirs — if  they  ever 
do  have  any.' 

'  Do  you  think  so,  Oldofredi  ?' 

'  Great  heavens  !  Do  I  think  so  !  The  Chamber  is  full  of 
cowards !' 

*  It  is  not,  Honourable  Oldofredi.' 

'  Cowardice  and  Company,  that  is  the  name  of  the  firm  !' 

'  I  assure  you  it  is  not,  Oldofredi.' 

'  You  are  giving  me  the  lie,  it  seems  to  me  ?' 

'  Certainly.' 

'  Do  you  give  me  the  lie  ?' 

'  Yes— I  do.' 

'  You  want  to  prove  to  me  that  the  Chamber  is  not  cowardly?' 

'  Yes.' 

'  I  live  in  the  Via  Frattina,  No.  46,  I  dine  at  the  Colonne, 
and  I  shall  be  at  the  Apollo  this  evening.' 

'  Very  well.* 

'  Good-day.* 

'  Good-day.' 

Oldofredi  shrugged  his  shoulders,  flicked  the  ashes  off  his 
cigarette,  and  went  out,  shaking  his  loose  limbs.  Sangiorgio 
dipped  his  pen  into  the  inkpot,  and  resumed  his  writing.  The 
occupants  of  the  next  room  had  heard  nothing,  especially  as 
the  conversation  had  been  carried  on  in  an  ordinary  tone  of 
voice.  Gasperini  was  turning  over  the  English  financial 
reports,  Giroux  was  immersed  in  Copernic,  and  Sangiorgio 
made  notes  from  TuUio  Martello's  '  Storia  dell'  Internazionale.' 


CHAPTER  IV 

When  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio  entered  the  Parliament  cafd 
at  seven  to  dine,  when  he  went  into  that  dark,  oppressive  vault, 
which  was,  as  it  were,  in  a  state  of  fumigation,  sundry  heads 
were  turned,  and  his  name  was  whispered  in  well-bred  under- 
tones by  the  diners.  Only  two  or  three  tables  were  vacant. 
After  a  moment  of  indecision,  Sangiorgio  sat  down  at  one  with 
three  chairs  unoccupied.  At  once,  from  the  next  table,  the 
Honourable  Correr,  the  young  deputy  of  the  Right,  nodded 
to  him  amicably,  and  the  Honourable  Scalatelli,  a  Colonel  of 
carabineers,  with  a  peaked,  grizzly  beard  and  merry  eyes, 
scrutinized  him  with  interest.  The  other  two,  ex-deputies,  the 
great  Paulo,  the  big  Paulo,  the  strong  Paulo,  continued  to  dis- 
pute with  the  little  Paduan  Mephistopheles,  Berna,  a  queer  spirit. 

*  Is  it  true,  then,  Sangiorgio,  about  the  duel  ?'  asked  Correr 
in  a  subdued  voice. 

*  It  is  true,'  answered  the  other,  looking  over  the  bill  of  fare. 
'  Your  first  duel  ?' 

'  My  first' 

'  Have  you  ever  taken  fencing  lessons  ?' 

'  A  few.' 

*  You  are  rash.     Oldofredi  is  a  remarkable  fencer.' 

'  A  duel — a  duel  ?    Who  is  fighting  ?'  exclaimed  the  bulky 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  157 

Paulo,  having  just  administered  'donkey'  to  his  friend  Berna, 
who  had  treated  him  to  *  idiot.' 

*  Here,  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio  with  Oldofredi,'  explained 
Correr. 

'  A  fine  opponent,  by  God !  He  is  left-handed,  is  Oldofredi ; 
you  had  better  take  that  into  consideration.  Honourable  San- 
giorgio.' 

'  I  was  not  aware  of  it,  but  I  will  consider  it.' 
'And  the  seconds — who  are  the  seconds?'  inquired  the  gigantic 
Paulo,  the  colossus,  the  molossus,  whom  every  duel  intoxicated. 

*  Count  Castelforte  and  Rosolino  Scalia ;  I  am  waiting  for 
them  to  dine  with  me,'  courteously  replied  Sangiorgio. 

'  Excellent !  A  good  choice — seconds  not  given  to  media- 
tion, will  attempt  no  friendly  settlement  on  the  ground.' 

'  Was  the  duel  unavoidable,  Sangiorgio  ?'  inquired  Scalatelli. 
'  Unavoidable.' 

*  Oldofredi  has  good  luck,  Sangiorgio.  I  fought  with  him  some 
years  ago,  and  he  cut  my  wrist,'  calmly  elucidated  Scalatelli. 

At  this,  the  Count  di  Castelforte  and  Rosolino  Scalia  came 
upon  the  scene,  and  singled  out  Sangiorgio.  The  Count  pre- 
served the  aristocratic  chill  that  emanated  from  his  whole  self, 
from  his  tall,  lean  person,  from  his  long,  black,  whitening  beard, 
from  the  half-inborn,  half-literary  composure  of  a  nobleman 
and  a  writer.  Rosolino  Scalia  comported  himself  like  an 
officer  in  plain  clothes,  with  flower  at  buttonhole  and  moustache 
scented ;  but  he,  too,  was  cool  and  serious.  Castelforte  engaged 
in  conversation  with  Correr  and  Scalatelli,  while  Scalia  removed 
his  topcoat. 

'  Well,'  asked  Sangiorgio,  '  what  has  happened  ?* 


158  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

'  Nothing  as  yet,'  replied  Scalia  with  reserve — *  or  very  little.' 

Sangiorgio  asked  no  further  questions.  The  beginning  of 
the  dinner  of  the  three  men  was  marked  by  complete  silence. 
Castelforte  was,  as  usual,  supercilious,  Scalia  grave,  and  San- 
giorgio impassive. 

'The  seconds  are  Lapucci  and  Bomba,'  said  Scalia,  helping 
himself  to  wine.  *  We  are  to  meet  them  at  half-past  nine. 
Have  you  provided  for  sabres,  Sangiorgio  ?' 

'Yes.' 

*  Very  well/  said  Castelforte.  *  I  hope  you  have  had  them 
sharpened  3  nothing  is  worse,  in  a  duel,  than  blunt  swords. 
The  duel  becomes  too  long,  and  the  gashes  are  always  ridicu- 
lously broad,  indecently  so.' 

*  I  have  had  them  ground  by  Spadini  himself.* 

'  Well  done,'  commented  Scalia.  '  A  protracted  duel  has  all 
sorts  of  disadvantages;  it  smacks  of  the  burlesque,  for  one. 
One  thing  I  advise  you,  Sangiorgio :  think  of  nothing,  and 
worry  about  nothing,  but  at  the  first  onset  rush  in ;  do  not 
wait  for  your  enemy,  and  make  no  calculations,  simply  go  at 
him ;  for  beginners  this  is  the  only  chance  of  success.' 

*  On  the  other  hand,'  interjected  Castelforte,  '  as  I  was  led 
to  understand  by  Lapucci,  the  conditions  will  be  of  a  most 
serious  kind.  But  you  are  not  in  jest,  Sangiorgio  j  it  is 
natural  that  between  two  serious  men  these  things  should  be 
taken  seriously.* 

'  I  have  no  intention  of  joking,'  observed  Sangiorgio,  taking 
some  salad. 

*  All  the  better.     Have  you  a  doctor  ?' 
•No.' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  159 

'  Let  us  take  the  usual  doctor — Alberti,'  said  Scalia.  '  I  will 
attend  to  it  this  evening.' 

A  small  boy  in  livery,  whose  cap  wore  the  inscription  '  Caffe 
di  Roma,'  came  into  the  place,  looking  about  for  someone. 
He  had  a  note  for  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio. 

'  The  Speaker  of  the  Chamber  has  sent  for  me  at  the  Roma 
cafe,  where  he  will  be  until  half- past  nine.' 

'  And  you  will  go,'  said  Castelforte.  *  But  stand  your  ground; 
do  not  allow  your  purpose  to  be  changed.' 

'Scalia!  Scalia!'  cried  the  mastiff  Paulo  from  the  other 
table,  no  longer  capable  of  reticence,  'take  care  what  place 
you  choose  for  the  duel !  Let  it  be  near  a  house,  an  inn,  a 
farm — any  sort  of  shelter.  Since  I  once  had  to  bring  back 
poor  Goffredi,  wounded  in  the  lungs,  and  gasping  and  spitting 
blood  at  every  jolt  of  the  carriage,  over  three  miles  of  high- 
road all  stones  and  ruts,  I  made  a  vow  never  to  act  as  second 
again  unless  there  was  a  bed  ready  within  fifty  yards.' 

'  Then  it  would  be  better  to  have  it  in  a  house, '  suggested  Correr. 

*  A  house  !  Not  at  all !'  exclaimed  Scalia.  '  It  is  unlucky 
in  a  house.     All  duels  in  houses  end  badly.' 

The  seconds  rose,  and  for  five  minutes  more  conversed  with 
their  principal,  all  standing  up  together.  They  were  watched 
with  curiosity  from  the  other  tables,  but  the  three  faces 
betrayed  nothing.  Then  followed  a  great  profusion  of  vigorous 
handshakes  and  of  bows.  Sangiorgio,  left  alone,  settled  the 
bill.  The  guests  at  the  other  tables  also  left,  bidding  San- 
giorgio farewell. 

'  Good  luck,  colleague !  Ram  it  down  the  wolf's  jaws  !'  said 
Correr. 


i6o  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

*  I  wish  you  a  steady  hand,  Honourable  Sangiorgio,'  added 
Scalatelli. 

'  Do  not  look  at  him  if  you  believe  in  the  evil-eye,'  advised 
Berna. 

But  from  the  middle  of  the  room  the  enormous  Paula,  with 
sudden  familiarity,  shouted  out  while  he  laughed  : 

'  Good-bye,  Sangiorgio,  and  I  tell  you  what :  aim  at  his  face  !' 

He  understood  that  they  all  went  away  doubtful  about  the 
issue.  He  left  two  minutes  later.  At  the  door  he  met  a 
reporter  of  a  morning  paper,  who  asked  him  for  news. 

'Nothing  yet,'  was  his  answer. 

'In  case — well,  in  case  of — may  I  come  to  your  house 
to-morrow  for  information  ?'  persisted  the  beardless  youth  with 
the  boyish  manner. 

'Angelo  Custode,  50,'  said  the  other,  moving  oflf. 

At  the  Caffb  di  Roma  the  Speaker  was  finishing  dinner  with 
his  friend.  Colonel  Freitag,  a  large  man  of  childish  mien,  of 
high-pitched,  reedy  voice.  The  Speaker  had  the  worn-out 
appearance  of  an  individual  resting  from  some  unprofitable 
labour.  As  soon  as  Sangiorgio  accosted  him  he  went  straight 
to  the  point : 

'Cannot  this  ugly  business  be  mended,  honourable  colleague!*' 

The  Speaker  repressed  a  nervous  little  gesture  and  bit  his  lips. 

•  I  think  not,  sir.' 

'Now,  come,  honourable  colleague — has  there  not  been 
some  misunderstanding  ?  A  duel  between  two  deputies  is  a 
grave  matter  ;  it  ought  not  to  occur  without  cause.' 

'There  was  no  misunderstanding,  I  assure  you.  Speaker.' 
'  I  have  experience  in   such  things  :    Oldofredi  is  rather 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  i6l 

excitable,  you  are  young,  and  some  joke  was  taken  the  wrong 
way.  One  ought  to  be  careful  on  these  occasions,  colleague  ; 
to-morrow  the  newspapers  will  talk,  and  then  a  scandal  will  arise.' 

'  I  hope  not.     In  any  case,  there  is  no  remedy.' 

'No  one  will  make  Oldofredi  say  that  you,  Sangiorgio, 
brought  about  this  duel  for  notoriety's  sake.' 

And  the  Speaker  cast  a  narrowly  scrutinizing  glance  at  the 
Southern  deputy's  face,  but  read  in  it  only  indifference,  im- 
passivity, and  he  seemed  to  abandon  his  attempt  at  mediation. 

'  Have  the  seconds  fixed  upon  the  conditions  ?'  he  inquired. 

'  Not  yet ;  I  am  to  meet  them  at  eleven.'    And  he  rose  to  go. 

'  Take  my  advice — give  no  information  to  reporters ;  a 
Parliamentary  duel  is  a  godsend  to  them.  Good  luck,  honour- 
able colleague  !' 

Sangiorgio  departed,  feeling  that  the  Speaker's  frigid  speech 
and  the  Honourable  Freitag's  obdurate  silence  both  meant  the 
same  thing. 

Out  in  the  street,  in  the  Corso,  he  stopped  and  hesitated. 
He  had  arranged  to  meet  his  seconds  at  the  Aragno  cafe, 
although  he  was  now  possessed  of  an  invincible  repugnance 
against  his  nocturnal  vagabondage,  this  wandering  from  one 
cafe  to  another,  against  those  artificial  camping-grounds  of 
deputies,  journalists,  and  idlers  without  a  home  of  their  own, 
who,  having  no  family,  spent  their  evenings  in  those  hot, 
smoke-laden  places.  An  intense  disgust  was  growing  up  in 
him  for  the  people  who  came  and  asked  questions,  and 
wanted  to  know,  and  offered  comments,  and  were  for  ever 
indifferent.  He  knew  that  Castelforte  and  Scalia  must  have 
come  together  with  Lapucci  and  Bomba  at  the  Uffici ;  he 

II 


i62  THE  CONQUEST  OP  ROME 

therefore  preferred  to  walk  slowly  up  towards  Montecitorio,  pur- 
chasing some  newspapers  at  the  kiosk  in  the  Piazza  Colonna, 
and  reading  them  by  lamplight  under  the  Veian  portico. 

Two  or  three  evening  papers  announced  the  duel  with  some 
ceremony  ;  one  gave  initials  only,  but  alleged  that  attempts  at 
conciliation  had  proved  fruitless.  He  put  them  into  his 
pocket,  and,  seized  somewhat  with  impatience,  began  to  pace 
up  and  down  opposite  the  Parliament.  The  great  windows  of 
the  offices  were  all  alight ;  the  clerks  were  still  at  work.  But 
the  square,  the  large  square  without  shops,  was  deserted.  He 
walked  back  and  forth,  round  the  obelisk  from  the  Uffici  del 
Vicario  to  the  Via  degli  Orfanelli,  and  from  the  Via  degli 
Orfanelli  to  the  Via  della  Missione,  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
his  head  down,  stepping  out  at  a  lively  gait  to  combat  the 
dampness  that  penetrated  to  the  bone. 

The  porch  door  of  the  Albergo  Milano,  which  fronts  upon 
the  square,  was  closing  after  the  arrival  of  the  last  omnibus 
from  the  station,  and  Sangiorgio's  seconds  had  not  yet  appeared. 
He  became  irritated  at  being  observed  by  the  deputies  who 
had  passed  the  evening  in  the  Chamber,  and  when  anyone 
showed  himself  in  the  doorway  Sangiorgio  stopped,  or  else 
turned  away  fretting  with  vexation.  At  length  Scalia  and 
Castelforte  came  out  upon  the  steps;  the  tall  figure  of  the 
Lombard  Count  was  outlined  against  the  shorter  but  sturdier 
frame  of  the  Sicilian  deputy.  They  were  talking  eagerly  at 
one  another ;  then  they  ceased,  and  made  their  way  down. 
Sangiorgio  joined  them  at  a  run. 

'  I  did  not  wish  to  wait  for  you  at  the  caf^.  It  is  full  of 
people,  and  they  all  want  to  know  about  it,  and  I  have  no 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  163 

desire   to   look   as   if    I   were  posing,'   he   explained   to   his 
seconds. 

'  You  did  well,'  said  Scalia.  '  When  one  is  to  fight,  it  is 
best  not  to  be  seen,  from  motives  of  delicacy.  That  poser 
of  an  Oldofredi  was  declaiming  the  whole  evening  at  the 
Colonne ;  he  is  at  the  theatre  now,  at  the  Apollo,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  being  admired.  Enough  of  that — everything  seems 
to  be  in  readiness.' 

'The  Acqua  Acetosa,  outside  the  Popolo  gate,  is  a  good 
place,'  suggested  Castelforte,  '  because  one  can  get  there  so 
quickly.  We  have  fixed  on  the  hour  of  ten,  and  shall  call  for 
you  at  half-past  eight' 

All  three  of  them  walked  in  the  direction  of  Sangiorgio's 
house.     He  smoked  in  silence. 

'  Are  you  nervous,  eh  ?'  asked  Scalia. 

'  Not  in  the  least !' 

'  Well,  then,  try  to  get  some  sleep.  Have  you  any  brandy 
at  home  ?' 

'No.' 

'  Brandy  is  a  good  thing  in  case  of  a  duel.  I  shall  bring  some 
on  the  ground  to-morrow  morning.     But  do  you  try  to  sleep.' 

*  Confound  it !     I  shall  sleep  !' 

'  We  have  ruled  out  no  strokes,'  resumed  Castelforte.  '  That 
was  what  you  wanted,  I  think.' 

'  Exactly  so.' 

'  I  have  notified  Dr.  Alberti,'  added  Scalia  ;  '  he  is  coming  ; 
his  experience  will  be  of  great  value.  Do  not  trouble  about  a 
carriage ;  we  shall  bring  a  landau  ourselves.  Only  be  ready 
punctually,  for  we  must  arrive  in  good  time.' 

II — 2 


id4  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

'  How  is  it,  Sangiorgio,  that  you  have  never  fought  a  duel  ?' 

'  Oh,  we  in  the  Basilicata  are  very  slow  to  wrath.' 

'  It  would  not  seem  so,'  laughed  Castelforte. 

Hereupon,  as  they  went  up  through  the  Via  Angelo  Custode, 
they  remained  silent.  Their  three  shadows  were  cast  con- 
spicuously on  the  empty  street :  Castelforte's,  lean  and  almost 
ghostly  ;  Scalia's,  rigidly  martial ;  Sangiorgio's,  small  but  solid. 
***** 

Alone  at  last.  The  tallow  candle  shed  a  dim  light  in  the 
cold  and  barren  parlour,  whose  stale  air  was  mingled  with  the 
bad  kitchen  smells  which  came  up  from  the  inner  courtyard. 
Alone  at  last — he  was  glad  of  it,  with  that  savage  desire  for 
solitude  which  frequently  invaded  his  being. 

On  that  afternoon  and  evening  the  strong  sentiment  in  him 
of  contempt  for  man,  always  latent  in  his  breast,  had  grown 
apace;  for  seven  hours  he  was  passing  through  one  of  the 
great  human  trials  which  leave  the  soul  embittered,  dis- 
appointed, sickened.  In  the  solitude  of  his  little  apartment,  in 
the  nocturnal  lucidity  of  his  brain,  which  no  man,  nor  thing, 
nor  circumstance  had,  up  till  then,  been  able  to  obscure,  all 
the  pettiness,  the  love  of  compromise,  the  coldness,  the  in- 
difference, the  stinted  zeal  of  the  people  he  had  met  with,  now 
stood  before  him,  arrayed,  classified,  definite.  First,  the 
difficulty  of  finding  seconds  against  Oldofredi,  who  had  a 
reputation  for  swordsmanship ;  then,  the  very  limited  enthu- 
siasm of  Scalia  and  Castelforte ;  all  the  advice,  all  the  sugges- 
tions, all  the  inconsiderate  sayings,  all  the  melancholy  fore- 
casts, pitying  inquiries,  unmeaning,  superficial  compliments — 
all  this  multitude  of  words,  of  phrases,  of  unpleasant  accents, 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  165 

disgusted  him  as  they  once  more  filed  before  his  mind,  re- 
minding him  again  of  men's  meanness  and  smooth  hypocrisy. 

He  felt  how  everyone,  acquaintances  and  strangers,  friends 
and  foes,  admirers  and  detractors,  far  or  near,  entertained  an 
adverse  judgment  of  him  because  of  his  duel  with  Oldofredi. 
He  was  conscious  of  the  offensive  commiseration  of  some,  of 
the  ironical  sneers  of  others,  of  the  wrathful  envy  of  others 
still,  of  the  profound  contempt  of  very  many.  He  was  aware 
that  his  audacious  exploit  of  venturing  to  measure  swords — he, 
the  young,  inexperienced  novice — with  a  fire-eater  whom  no 
one  any  longer  dared  insult,  and  who  was  an  old  deputy,  was 
bringing  down  upon  him  ridicule,  pity,  and  disdain.  In  that 
hour  he  had  the  whole  of  public  opinion  against  him,  and  felt 
overwhelmed  by  the  injustice  of  humanity.  It  was  bliss  to 
him  to  be  alone,  to  be  able  to  shut  himself  up  with  his  bitter- 
ness and  his  broken  illusions.  But  he  was  not  quite  alone, 
no — something  there  was  that  lay  shining  on  the  sofa.  And 
as  he  took  the  candle  in  hand  in  order  to  see  better,  a  glisten- 
ing streak  glowed  forth.  In  the  watches  of  the  night  the 
sharp-edged  swords  watched  too. 

They,  at  all  events,  did  not  lie.  Stubborn  was  their  strength 
in  attack  and  defence ;  it  was  enough  to  smooth  their  sides  for 
five  minutes,  and  the  power  of  good  and  evil  was  in  them. 
They  never  dissembled,  but  were  ready — loyally  ready — to 
parry  mortal  strokes,  to  pierce,  to  cut,  to  kill ;  one  in  his  hand, 
the  other  in  his  enemy's  ;  blade  against  blade ;  edge  against  edge 
— those  faithful  swords !  The  word  of  man  by  its  unkind- 
ness  congeals  the  blood,  or  through  its  bitterness  poisons  the 
heart ;  a  good  blade  does  its  work  honestly,  cuts  straight  and 


i66  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

deep.  The  human  tongue  inflicts  rending  wounds;  the  sword 
scarcely  gives  pain,  because  of  the  rapid  precision  of  the  blow. 

Sangiorgio,  irresistibly  attracted  by  the  sheen  of  the  steel, 
went  to  sit  on  the  sofa,  and  ran  his  finger  along  the  keen  edge 
of  one  of  the  sabres.  What  did  seconds,  deputies,  friends, 
enemies,  reporters,  matter  now  ?  The  whole  affair  depended 
on  those  two  weapons ;  the  end  would  be  decided  by  a  well- 
tempered,  well-sharpened  piece  of  steel.  End?  He  looked 
about,  as  if  looking  for  the  person  who  had  said  the  word. 
But  he  was  alone ;  the  swords  lay  by  his  side ;  his  gaze  was 
raptly  fixed  upon  them.  For  others  the  night  preceding  a  duel 
is  a  night  of  agitation,  of  nervousness,  of  walking  the  floor; 
others  all  have  a  woman  to  be  reassured  by  airiness,  a  relative 
to  whom  a  letter  must  be  written,  a  friend  entitled  to  a  note,  a 
servant  to  be  charged  with  an  important  errand ;  others  are 
not  afraid,  perhaps,  but  they  all  feel  a  little  troubled,  a  trifle 
thoughtful,  a  particle  of  remorse ;  all  others  are  either  elated 
or  try  to  forget,  at  the  idea  of  the  end  ;  some  great  interest  of 
the  heart  must  suffer ;  the  soul  is  exalted  or  cast  down,  thrilled 
or  plunged  in  lethargy.  Of  all  this  there  was  no  question  with 
Sangiorgio ;  no  woman,  no  parents,  no  friends,  no  servants ; 
not  a  line  to  be  written,  not  a  word  to  be  said,  not  an  order 
to  be  given.  In  vain  did  Sangiorgio  seek  in  his  heart  for  the 
great  interest  to  be  hurt  at  the  notion  of  the  end. 

Whom  would  it  grieve  if  to-morrow  Oldofredi  sent  him  home 
seriously  wounded  or  dead  ?  To  what  man  or  woman  would 
this  matter  ?  No  one  would  care — no  one ;  he  was  alone,  in 
face  of  the  swords,  in  face  of  the  end.  And  in  that  cool  pro- 
cess of  elimination,  in  that  misanthropical  method  of  selection 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  167 

of  men  and  sentiments,  he  arrived  at  himself,  at  his  grand, 
absorbing,  selfish  passion  :  political  ambition.  If  he  were 
wounded  next  day — badly  or  slightly  would  be  equally  signifi- 
cant of  defeat — then  the  absolute  end  would  come  to  his 
profound,  intense,  burning  desire  for  fame  and  power. 
Wounded  or  dead,  no  tears  of  woman,  no  love  of  friend,  no 
affectionate  regrets,  would  be  his  portion ;  but  he,  Sangiorgio, 
would  be  the  sole  mourner  of  his  own  lost  hopes  of  renown, 
his  own  dreams  of  ambition  wrecked  in  the  physical  and 
moral  shame  of  the  disaster.  The  swordthrust  which  to- 
morrow ierced  his  flesh,  cut  through  his  muscles,  sundered  his 
veins,  would  find  its  way  to  his  heart,  that  hard,  fast-closed 
heart,  where  only  one  passion  lived,  and  would  give  that 
passion  a  mortal  wound.  The  slow,  substantial  task,  at  which 
he  had  been  labouring  so  long  with  the  diligence  of  an  ant, 
with  inflexible  persistency,  might  crumble  to  nothing  the  next 
day.  Then,  of  what  account  all  the  strength  put  forth,  all 
those  endeavours,  privations,  abstinences,  all  those  pangs 
endured  in  silence  ?  One  stroke  of  a  sword,  and  all  this  was 
vain.  Thus,  in  the  smoky  light  of  the  tallow  candle,  in  the 
night,  in  the  solitude,  those  naked  sabres  for  one  brief  instant 
frightened  him. 

At  half-past  eight  precisely  the  seconds  arrived.  Sangiorgio, 
completely  dressed,  his  overcoat  buttoned  and  his  lustrous,  tall 
silk  hat  on  a  table,  was  rather  pale,  but  quite  composed ;  only 
by  a  scarcely  perceptible  tremble  of  one  corner  of  his  mouth 
did  he  show  the  least  sign  of  agitation. 

*  Where  are  the  sabres  ?'  inquired  Castelforte. 

'  Here.' 


l68  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

Castelforte  took  them  from  their  sheaths  separately,  touched 
their  points,  ran  his  finger  along  their  edges,  bent  them  back- 
wards and  forwards  with  the  points  stuck  into  the  floor,  and 
tried  them  again  and  again,  making  flourishes  in  the  air. 

'  Have  you  a  scarf  or  a  silk  handkerchief,  to  tie  them  together?' 

Sangiorgio  had  a  scarf  ready.  Scalia  put  the  sabres  into  a 
bag,  about  which  he  wound  the  neckcloth,  took  up  the  gauntlet 
lying  on  the  lounge,  and  looked  at  Castleforte,  saying : 

'  Shall  we  go  ?' 

'  Yes,  let  us  go.' 

They  descended  the  dark  staircase.  The  coachman  opened 
the  door  of  the  landau,  Scalia  threw  the  swords  and  the  glove 
on  one  of  the  seats ;  then  they  all  three  jumped  quickly  into 
the  carriage.  They  drove  through  the  Via  Due  Macelli,  where 
the  florist  was  displaying  a  large  show  of  roses,  and  thence 
into  the  Piazza  di  Spagna.  From  the  woolly  clouds  gathering 
in  the  sky  a  few  drops  of  wet  fell  upon  the  carriage  windows. 

*  It  is  raining,'  said  Sangiorgio. 

'  That  does  not  matter,'  said  Castelforte.  '  A  duel  in  the 
rain  is  more  dramatic' 

In  the  Via  del  Babuino  demolitions  were  in  progress. 
Heaps  of  ruins  blocked  the  mouths  of  the  side-streets ;  the 
beginning  of  the  Via  Vittoria  was  all  topsy-turvy,  since  the 
drain -pipes  were  being  mended.  By  the  time  they  had 
reached  the  Piazza  del  Popolo,  the  rain  was  heavier,  and  was 
falling  with  as  lively  a  patter  as  though  it  were  hail. 

'  It  will  leave  off,'  said  Scalia.     '  The  wind  is  changing.' 

Outside  the  gate  the  carriage  stopped,  to  take  up  the  doctor, 
who  was  waiting  at  the  Cafifb  dei  Tre  Re.     Under  his  arm  he 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  169 

had  a  case  of  instruments  and  some  lint.  He  took  a  seat 
opposite  Sangiorgio,  beside  Castelforte.  He  was  in  cheerful 
humour,  and  told  tales  of  other  duels  he  had  witnessed. 

And  as  the  landau  went  at  a  gallop  over  the  muddy  stones 
of  the  Flaminian  Way,  the  first  Ponte  MoUe  tram  left  the 
station,  and  rattled  off  half  empty,  bouncing  and  swaying  on 
the  rails. 

The  carriage  then  passed  the  gasometer,  and  rapidly  bent 
into  the  street  leading  to  the  Villa  Glori.  Under  the  Arco 
Oscuro  the  country  loomed  in  sight  ;  the  first  trees  were 
visible  beyond  the  walls. 

Then  Sangiorgio,  who  up  to  that  time  had  been  sunk  in  a 
sort  of  mental  and  moral  stupor,  in  a  sort  of  weariness  of 
brain  and  heart,  roused  himself  in  a  state  of  reaction.  Castel- 
forte had  lowered  a  window,  and  the  fresh  air  came  whistling 
in.  As  the  road  happened  to  be  sloping  upwards,  the  carriage 
was  moving  at  a  walk.  Sangiorgio  began  to  revive  and  to 
think.  By  degrees,  during  the  approach  to  the  appointed 
place,  all  his  nervous  force  concentrated  in  his  teeth, 
which  he  bit  closer  and  closer  together,  minute  by  minute. 
He  also  seized  one  of  the  window-tassels  in  his  hand,  and 
closed  his  fingers  upon  it  with  more  and  more  vigour.  Under 
his  eyes  a  streak  of  warm  red  appeared,  which  began  to  spread 
irregularly  downward.  But,  as  his  fervour  grew,  all  desire  to 
show  it  outwardly  diminished  ;  he  was  slowly  shutting  himself 
up  with  himself,  in  a  sort  of  romantic,  idolatrous  self-com- 
munion, and  to  the  remarks  of  the  doctor  and  his  seconds  he 
vouchsafed  no  other  reply  than  a  series  of  more  than  usually 
violent  nods.     The  horses  puffed  hard  on  the  inclining  road ; 


I/O  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

at  last,  at  the  Villa  Glori,  the  descent  began.  Then  the 
carriage  started  off  again  at  a  fast  trot.  There  were  no  more 
walls ;  henceforth,  to  right  and  left,  blooming  hedges  sped  by 
the  carriage  windows.  For  a  while  it  seemed  to  Sangiorgio  as 
though  girls  were  running  along  offering  him  bunches  of  haw- 
thorn. Then  the  hedges  ceased,  and  the  carriage  drove  in 
between  two  rows  of  elms,  whose  tops  quivered  gently  in  the 
wind.  A  wild  shudder  ran  through  Sangiorgio's  body,  and 
the  flush  under  his  eyes  was  gone.  They  had  arrived.  He 
wanted  to  jump  out  at  once ;  Castelforte  held  him  back. 

'  Remain  in  the  carriage  with  the  doctor,'  said  he.  '  The 
exact  spot  is  not  agreed  upon  yet.     Wait  a  little.' 

The  seconds  got  out.  Sangiorgio  stayed  inside  at  the  window. 

They  were  first  on  the  ground.  The  cabin  at  the  Acqua 
Acetosa  was  deserted.  Doors  and  shutters  were  closed.  There 
was  not  a  vestige  of  life.  The  great  plain  stretched  along  the 
river,  green,  treeless,  and  without  a  human  creature.  Far 
away,  in  the  direction  of  the  Villa  Ada,  a  long  file  of  white 
sheep  was  distinguishable  against  the  uniform  green  and  ash- 
gray,  and  a  hooded  shepherd  was  standing  there  erect  and 
motionless. 

Castelforte  and  Scalia  walked  out  upon  the  plain,  gesticu- 
lating. The  weather  was  clearing  a  little,  though  there  were 
still  rumblings  and  threatening  signs.  The  immense  area, 
grown  with  useless  herbage,  was  such  a  mournful  and  desolate 
wilderness  that  the  shapes  of  the  two  well-dressed  men  moving 
among  the  blooming  chicory  created  a  curious  dissonance  in 
the  scene.  The  Tiber,  swollen  and  livid,  was  tossing  in  angry 
turbulence.   Castelforte  and  Scalia  turned  back  slowly,  arguing 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  171 

the  while.  Sangiorgio  was  beginning  to  tremble  with  im- 
patience. The  carriage  seemed  suffocating  to  him,  and  he 
could  barely  breathe. 

The  two  seconds  drew  near  again.  Castelforte  leaned  in  at 
the  window. 

'We  have  found  a  good  place;  it  is  a  little  soft,  but  not 
slippery.  We  must  wait  to  see  if  the  others  are  satisfied 
with  it.' 

'  Here  they  come !'  said  Sangiorgio,  whose  senses  had 
become  excessively  acute  through  the  excitement. 

Indeed,  the  noise  of  a  carriage  was  audible,  and  it  rapidly 
grew  more  defined ;  the  vehicle  turned  into  the  plain  at  a  fast 
gallop,  and  drew  up  at  a  short  distance  from  the  hut,  in  the 
middle  of  the  field.  The  door  opened,  and  Oldofredi, 
Lapucci,  and  Bomba  leaped  down. 

These  last  advanced  towards  Castelforte  and  Scalia,  who 
came  to  meet  them  ;  Sangiorgio's  doctor  and  Oldofredi's  kept 
aside,  kneeling  in  the  grass  and  opening  out  their  cases,  so 
as  to  have  everything  ready.  Oldofredi  remained  near  his 
carriage,  with  his  topcoat  on,  smoking  and  playfully  tapping 
the  croup  of  one  of  the  horses  with  his  thin  bamboo  cane. 
Sangiorgio,  his  body  half  out  of  the  door,  was  casting  hesitating 
glances  about.  What  enraged  him  was  his  inexperience,  the 
newness  of  the  thing,  and  his  ignorance  of  the  formalities. 
Was  he  to  stay  in  the  coach,  or  alight  as  his  adversary  had 
done  ?  He  looked  at  the  seconds.  Castelforte  and  Lapucci, 
bent  low,  were  clearing  the  ground  with  their  feet  and  drawing 
lines  with  their  walking-sticks.     Scalia  came  to  the  window. 

*  Be  quick  !     Leave  your  topcoat  and  hat  in  the  carriage.' 


172  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

He  took  the  swords  and  gauntlet,  and  turned  to  the  spot 
chosen  for  the  encounter.  Bomba  also  turned,  with  a  pair  of 
swords  and  another  gauntlet.  Sangiorgio,  whose  breast  and 
temples  were  throbbing,  shivered  with  expectancy  and  eager- 
ness, threw  aside  his  hat,  tore  off  topcoat,  coat,  waistcoat,  and 
necktie,  and  rushed  impetuously  towards  the  seconds.  The 
sharp,  hard  ring  of  the  swords  cast  on  the  grass  by  Scalia 
checked  him.     Castelforte  shouted  to  him  from  the  distance : 

*  Keep  on  your  coat !     It  is  cold  1' 

Sangiorgio  returned,  fetched  his  great-coat,  drew  it  over  his 
shoulders,  and  joined  the  seconds.  In  the  centre  of  the 
duelling-ground  Castelforte  and  Lapucci  were  drawing  lots  for 
the  choice  of  swords  and  the  privilege  of  giving  the  words  of 
command.  Scalia  and  the  doctor  took  Sangiorgio  between 
them,  and  spoke  to  him  quietly : 

'  Have  you  taken  a  mouthful  of  brandy  ?' 

'No.' 

*  That's  bad     One  ought  always  to  fortify  one's  self.' 
'  I  shall  not  need  it,'  was  Sangiorgio's  mental  retort. 

*  I  am  to  give  the  words  of  command  in  the  fight.  You  are 
to  choose  the  swords,*  said  Castelforte.  *  Do  you  wish  to 
examine  ours  ?' 

'  I  choose  our  own,'  answered  Lapucci ;  *  here  they  are.' 
Oldofredi,  who  was  in  another  part  of  the  ground,  considering 
the  landscape  with  an  anemone  between  his  lips,  veered  to  the 
right-about.  Castelforte  stepped  up  to  Sangiorgio,  put  a  sword 
into  his  grasp,  tied  its  handle  to  his  wrist,  and  accompanied 
him  to  his  post.  The  doctors  moved  off  twenty  paces.  Scalia 
stayed  at   Sangiorgio's  left,  and   Bomba  at  Oldofredi's  left. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  173 

Lapucci  and  Castelforte  took  up  their  position  in  the  middle, 
opposite  one  another,  each  with  sword  in  hand. 

Oldofredi  bore  a  more  stupid  and  vacant  expression  than 
usual ;  certainly  his  mind  was  as  yet  unoccupied  with  what 
ought  to  have  concerned  him  most. 

*  Castelforte,  with  his  cavalry  Captain's  manner,  looked  im- 
periously at  Sangiorgio  and  then  at  Oldofredi. 

'  Gentlemen '  he  began  in  a  singing  tone. 

Sangiorgio,  whose  blood  had  run  violently  to  his  face,  stared 
at  him ;  Oldofredi  spat  out  the  anemone,  and  with  an  aristo- 
cratic gesture  dropped  his  overcoat  from  his  shoulders. 

'  Gentlemen,  it  would  be  an  insult  to  admonish  two  men  of 
your  breeding  to  comport  yourselves  in  perfectly  chivalrous 
fashion.  I  will  only  remind  you  that  you  must  immediately 
stop  as  soon  as  you  hear  the  word  "  Halt !"  and  that  you  must 
not  attack  excepting  at  the  command  "  Go !"   Now  let  us  begin.' 

He  gave  Lapucci  a  nod,  who  replied  with  another,  and 
called  out : 

'  Guard !' 

With  a  hardly  noticeable  movement  Oldofredi  advanced 
his  right  foot,  bent  his  arm  and  sword  to  the  proper  angle,  and 
planted  himself  firmly  on  his  legs.  Sangiorgio  sprang  to  the 
attitude  of  guard  with  a  bound,  stretching  out  his  right  arm 
and  sword  in  such  a  rigid  straight  line  that  he  might  have  been 
of  iron. 

'Go !'  commanded  Castelforte. 

And  they  made  a  dash  at  one  another.  Oldofredi's  sword 
struck  Sangiorgio' s,  which  was  aimed  at  him  in  a  thrust, 
warded  it  off,  and  slid  down  upon  the  padded  glove.     But 


174  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

Sangiorgio,  raising  arm  and  weapon  with  savage  strength,  beat 
back  his  enemy's  blade,  and  all  but  broke  his  sword.guard  in 
the  onslaught. 

'  Halt !'  shouted  Castelforte,  interposing  his  own  weapon. 

The  two  combatants  obeyed,  and  resumed  their  places. 
Oldofredi,  a  little  pale,  was  smiling ;  he  had  gauged  his  foe. 
Sangiorgio,  however,  in  whose  breast  raged  the  fury  of  a  bull 
that  has  seen  red,  kept  his  mouth  shut,  and  breathed  vehe- 
mently through  his  nose. 

'  Guard  !'  said  Castelforte  again. 

Sangiorgio,  with  his  arm  extended,  and  his  steel's  point 
directed  at  his  adversary's  face,  glowered  at  him  with  such 
fierce,  menacing  eyes  that  Oldofredi  took  note  of  it. 

*  Go  !'  exclaimed  Castelforte. 

This  time  Oldofredi  attacked,  making  for  his  opponent's 
body;  Sangiorgio,  standing  steady,  his  arm  outstretched  and 
his  point  at  the  enemy's  eyes,  did  not  parry.  But  as  he  saw 
the  blade,  with  which  a  feint  had  been  made  at  his  stomach, 
flash  by  his  eyes  and  about  to  reach  his  face,  he  met  it  with  a 
grinding  stroke,  so  sweeping  and  so  determined  that  Oldofredi's 
sword  fell  from  his  hand^  and  remained  suspended  from  the 
lash. 

'  Halt !'  shouted  Castelforte. 

Lapucci  and  Bomba  hastened  to  refasten  Oldofredi's  weapon 
to  his  wrist. 

•  Good  !  Another  score  !'  whispered  Castelforte  into  his 
principal's  ear. 

Sangiorgio  was  in  a  serener  state  of  mind.  An  internal 
exultation  of  pride  gratified  expressed  itself  in  his  face.     His 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  175 

teeth  closed  together.  Oldofredi  was  back  at  his  post,  his 
sword  in  hand,  but  this  time  he  was  white  with  the  pallor  of 
rage.  His  teeth,  too,  were  interlocked,  and  his  brow  was  as 
dark  as  if  ready  to  hurl  thunderbolts. 

At  the  word  of  command  he  flew  at  his  enemy  at  a  bound, 
without  a  feint  or  any  sort  of  artifice  in  fencing,  intending  to 
split  his  head  open.  But  before  his  sword  could  reach  its 
mark,  the  point  of  Sangiorgio's  cut  into  his  nether  lip,  and 
rent  his  whole  cheek  as  far  as  the  temple.  The  four  seconds 
precipitated  themselves  on  the  duellists,  and  the  doctors  ran 
up.  Oldofredi  was  dragged  aside,  and  made  to  sit  on  a 
stretcher  surrounded  by  the  six  men.  Sangiorgio  stood  alone, 
sword  in  hand,  half  undressed,  and  dazed,  under  the  leaden 
sky  which  once  more  sent  down  a  muddy  shower. 

***** 

While  the  carriage  was  passing  under  the  Porta  del  Popolo 
indistinctly  he  heard  Castelforte  ask  the  doctor : 

'  How  many  stitches  will  be  required  ?' 

'Ten.' 

'  How  many  days  will  he  be  laid  up  ?' 

*  Twenty — unless  a  violent  fever  sets  in.* 

'  By  God,  what  a  fine  stroke !'  interjected  Scalia,  gleefully 
pulling  at  his  cigar. 

'And  then  there  is  the  scar,'  added  Castelforte,  laughing. 
'  Oldofredi  will  not  forget  that  stroke  !' 

The  doctor  got  out  at  the  San  Giacomo  hospital,  after 
making  an  appointment  to  sign  the  record  of  the  duel.  At 
the  mention  of  this,  Sangiorgio  broke  his  silence. 

'  Are  you  hungry  ?'  Scaha  asked  him. 


176  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

*He  ought  to  be;  he  certainly  deserves  an  appetite,'  said 
Castelforte. 

And  they  both  smiled  complacently. 

The  seconds  had  not  embraced  their  principal  on  the 
ground,  so  as  not  to  be  seen,  but  during  the  return,  in  the 
carriage,  they  gradually  gave  themselves  up  to  affectionate 
demonstrations.  Their  coolness  and  stiffness  were  gone ;  they 
looked  at  Sangiorgio  lovingly,  with  shining  eyes,  spoke  of  him 
proudly,  tenderly,  as  of  a  good  son  who  has  passed  an  examina- 
tion and  carried  off  the  highest  number  of  marks.  Castelforte 
actually  tapped  him  two  or  three  times  on  the  shoulder — a  very 
unusual  piece  of  familiarity  as  coming  from  this  grand  gentle- 
man. They  caressed  him  with  their  eyes,  with  the  tone  of 
their  voices,  with  flattering  words,  showing  how  they  valued 
him  and  how  well  they  were  disposed  towards  him  after  the 
duel.  He  received  this  flood  of  new  friendship  very  quietly ; 
the  tension  of  his  nerves  was  relaxing  more  and  more,  giving 
room  to  a  strong  desire  for  physical  life,  in  which  he  would 
not  think,  but  would  only  eat,  digesting  the  meal  in  a  warm 
room,  and  then  sleep  soundly  for  several  hours.  He  smiled 
at  his  seconds  like  a  boy  who  has  distinguished  himself  at  his 
examinations,  like  a  little  girl  after  her  first  communion.  The 
whole  scene  of  the  Acqua  Acetosa,  with  that  great,  bleeding, 
streaming  gash  on  his  adversary's  face,  had  now  vanished ;  he 
felt  nothing  but  the  blissful  happiness  of  triumphant  rest. 
His  features  had  expanded,  his  eyes  had  lost  their  feverish 
glitter,  his  jaws  were  loosely  set :  Francesco  Sangiorgio  looked 
like  a  dolt 

«  *  *  *  * 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  177 

The  luncheon  at  the  Roma  cafe  was  loud  and  lively.  Once 
a  minute  Castelforte  and  Scalia  filled  Sangiorgio's  glass.  He 
ate  and  drank  plentifully,  happy  in  the  doing  of  it,  acknow- 
ledging by  nods  the  amiable  remarks  of  his  two  seconds, 
laughing  when  they  spoke  of  Oldofredi's  mortification,  which 
hurt  him  far  more  than  his  wound. 

At  dessert  the  genial  humour  increased. 

*  Because,'  Scalia  was  continuing,  '  because  I  have  a  great 
experience  of  duels,  and  I  was  anxious  on  your  account,  my 
dear  Sangiorgio.  Your  opponent  was  strong  and  brave,  and 
had  fought  twenty  times.  You  were  new  at  it,  inexperienced 
— and  so,  of  course — I  was  anxious ' 

'  Oldofredi  was  not !'  interjected  Castelforte. 

*  He  seemed  to  be  in  a  jocular  mood  on  the  ground,'  re- 
marked Sangiorgio. 

*  Oldofredi  never  makes  a  joke,'  said  Scalia  sententiously. 
'One  need  not  believe  in  his  posings.  At  the  third  attack, 
let  me  assure  you,  my  dear  colleagues,  he  was  raving ;  he  went 
at  you,  Sangiorgio,  as  if  he  wanted  to  cleave  your  skull.  What 
a  stroke,  ye  holy  fiends  !' 

'  What  a  stroke,  by  God !'  chimed  in  Castelforte. 

And  the  same  complimentary  speeches  began  over  again ; 
they  were  rather  monotonous,  rather  exaggerated,  as  though 
proffered  by  persons  still  under  a  recent  vivid  impression,  who 
repeat  the  same  story  a  hundred  times,  rocking  themselves  to 
the  same  tune  and  unable  to  think  of  anything  else.  Thus 
the  tale  was  retold  three  or  four  times.  The  Honourable 
Melillo,  who  had  been  at  lunch  with  the  Honourable  Cermig- 
niani  at  the  Colonne,  and  who  was  somewhat  concerned  about 

12 


178  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

his  Basilicatan  colleague,  had  come  down  by  way  of  the  Corse 
to  see  if  he  might  meet  his  carriage,  and  while  he  was  jabber- 
ing politics,  shouting,  excitedly  gesticulating,  vociferating, 
quoting  figures  and  demolishing  calculations,  he  espied  the 
group  of  three  at  table  in  the  eating-house.  So  the  Honour- 
able Melillo,  the  blonde  member  with  the  red  face  and  the 
white  waistcoat,  had  joined  them,  in  order  to  embrace  San- 
giorgio,  and  meantime  Cermigniani,  the  deputy  from  the 
Abruzzi,  stood  by,  listening  to  the  account  given  by  the 
seconds,  tugging  mechanically  at  his  black  beard,  throwing  in 
exclamations,  and,  seized  with  warlike  ardour,  planting  himself 
in  a  sort  of  offensive  attitude. 

Bencini,  the  old  deputy  of  the  Right,  the  clever  old  luke- 
warm Catholic,  suspected  of  deriding  God  and  the  devil  alike, 
was  chatting  and  laughing  in  spirited  fashion,  at  the  other  end 
of  the  room,  with  Gambara,  the  dean  of  the  old  Conservative 
party.  Bencini,  inquisitive  and  talkative  as  a  woman,  came  to 
offer  his  congratulations,  although  he  scarcely  knew  Sangiorgio. 
But  the  witty,  paradox-loving  Tuscan  entertained  a  deep 
dislike  for  Oldofredi's  vainglorious,  swaggering  stupidity.  He 
chuckled  as  he  thought  of  the  fury  of  the  deputy  from  the 
Marches.     Quoth  he : 

'  Oldofredi  cannot  consign  this  affair  to  oblivion ;  they  have 
sewed  it  on  his  face  !  Fortunately,  we  are  not  in  the  dog-days 
at  present,  or  he  might  try  to  bite.' 

And  all  of  them,  gathered  about  Sangiorgio,  burst  out 
laughing.  Castelforte  told  Gambara,  who  had  come  up  to 
him,  the  story  over  again,  and  Gambara  smiled  placidly  as  he 
looked  at  Sangiorgio  with  the  eye  of  an  old  Parliamentarian 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  179 

fond  of  studious  and  brave  young  deputies.  Cermigniani  and 
Melillo  were  listening  to  the  brilliant  tittle-tattle  of  Bencini, 
with  his  cackling  speech  and  his  dry  laugh. 

It  was  almost  a  procession  that  escorted  Sangiorgio  to  the 
landau.  The  sun  had  come  out,  the  top  of  the  carriage  had 
been  lowered,  and  Melillo  insisted  on  getting  in  with  him. 
And  all  the  way  down  the  Corso  there  was  shaking  of  hands, 
bows,  nods,  congratulations,  gestures,  and  smiles,  in  lavish 
profusion.  The  street  was  full  of  deputies,  journalists,  business 
men,  and  reporters,  standing  about  after  lunch  to  enjoy  a  little 
sunshine  before  going  to  Montecitorio.  The  Honourable 
Chialamberto,  the  short  Ligurian  deputy,  was  having  a  dis- 
cussion with  Colonel  Dicenzo,  a  lean  Abruzzan  of  ascetic 
appearance ;  both  bowed  low  to  the  four  deputies  as  they 
passed,  at  the  same  time  nudging  one  another.  As  for  the 
deputy  Carusio,  in  the  Piazza  Colonna  he  rushed  to  the 
carriage  door,  made  the  coachman  stop,  hugged  and  kissed 
Sangiorgio,  shouting  excitedly  that  he  was  on  his  way  to  the 
Prime  Minister's,  to  inform  him  of  the  happy  result  of  the  duel. 

In  the  Chamber  an  ever-growing  demonstration  occurred, 
of  which  Sangiorgio  was  the  centre.  The  Speaker  maintained, 
as  was  his  wont,  his  proper  dignity,  but  in  the  smile  with  which 
he  greeted  Sangiorgio  there  was  something  cordial,  something 
affable,  a  sort  of  kindly  light.  The  Honourable  Freitag,  big 
and  stout,  with  his  head  sunk  between  his  shoulders,  and  in 
the  habit  of  swinging  his  bulk  up  and  down  the  dark  corridors 
like  an  elephant,  asked  the  Southern  deputy,  in  his  small, 
piping  voice : 

•  In  the  face,  was  it  not  ?' 

12 — 2 


i8o  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

'  In  the  face.' 

The  rest  did  nothing  but  stop  and  congratulate  one  another 
with  hearty  handshakes;  they  all  wanted  particulars  of  the 
duel.  Scalia,  Castelforte,  and  even  Melillo,  were  all  besieged ; 
the  tale  went  round  of  the  three  sundry  attacks  and  the  final 
stroke ;  the  bellicose  deputies  listened  with  sparkling  eyes  and 
with  occasional  exclamations  of  praise ;  the  pacific  deputies 
listened  silently  and  smiling,  thinking  of  a  tournament.  A 
few — the  cruellest — wanted  to  be  told  more,  had  the  length 
and  depth  of  Oldofredi's  wound  described  to  them,  asked  if 
he  had  bled  much,  if  the  wound  would  heal  soon,  if  the 
scar  would  be  very  plain.  But  all  over  the  House,  by  every 
one,  even  by  the  most  cautious,  even  by  those  who  ventured 
only  a  word  and  a  bow,  the  profound  antipathy  was  evinced 
which  was  entertained  for  Oldofredi  by  most  of  his  fellow- 
members.  In  many  of  them  lingered  secret  rancour  because 
of  a  sentence,  a  glance,  some  trifling  insult  received  and  merely 
endured  from  forbearance,  so  as  to  avoid  talk  and  scandal. 

A  few  rare  friends  of  Oldofredi  held  aloof,  satisfying  them- 
selves with  offering  Sangiorgio  no  felicitations.  When  Lapucci 
and  Bomba  entered  the  Chamber  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
at  about  four  o'clock,  inquiries  were  scarce,  and  were  dictated 
by  cold  curiosity.  The  two  seconds  felt,  in  their  turn,  the 
isolation  of  their  principal,  who  lay  in  bed,  with  face  and  head 
bandaged,  in  a  state  of  violent  fever.  Few  asked  about  him ; 
they  thought,  one  and  all,  that  the  wound  was  a  well-merited 
punishment  for  his  sovereign  insolence,  but  that  one  ought  to 
be  charitable  towards  the  vanquished. 

The  enthusiasm   for  Sangiorgio  continued  until  evening, 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  i8i 

waxing  higher  still  at  the  dinner-hour.  Overwhelmed  and 
confused,  but  always  preserving  his  external  calm,  which  was 
now  and  then  varied  by  a  stolid  smile,  he  let  them  say  and  do 
what  they  pleased,  listening  to  everybody  and  everything, 
yielding  to  the  enjoyment  of  this  new  popularity. 

He  repaired  to  the  Costanzi  Theatre,  where  the  *  Huguenots ' 
was  being  performed,  took  an  orchestra  stall,  and  listened  to 
the  music,  with  which  he  was  unfamiliar,  in  a  half-imbecile 
state.  Behind  him,  two  young  men  were  discussing  the  duel, 
pointing  at  him  as  the  individual  who  had  inflicted  the  sword- 
cut  on  Oldofredi ;  they  spoke  in  a  whisper,  but  he  heard  them 
very  well,  as  he  was  giving  but  one  ear  to  the  music.  After 
the  first  act  he  felt  the  glow  of  an  ardent  gaze  upon  his  face  : 
Donna  Elena  Fiammanti  was  looking  at  him  from  a  box.  He 
betook  himself  up  there  automatically.  Opening  the  door,  he 
stepped  into  the  minute  room  separated  from  the  box  and  the 
public  by  a  red  curtain.  Two  arms  surrounded  his  neck,  and 
an  agitated  voice  spoke  : 

'  Oh,  Franz !  oh,  Franz  !  Why  did  you  fight  on  my  account  ? 
It  was  not  worth  while  !' 

On  their  way  downstairs,  after  the  opera — in  the  course  of 
which  at  least  ten  visits  had  been  paid  at  the  box — as  Donna 
Elena  leant  upon  his  arm,  her  eyes  moist  with  pleasure  and 
pride,  he  saw,  in  the  lobby,  the  monster  Paulo  putting  on  a 
huge  overcoat.  Of  a  sudden,  the  whole  fog  of  vanity  was  dis- 
pelled, and  Sangiorgio  felt  an  impulse  to  throw  himself  on  that 
gallant  gentleman's  broad  breast.  It  was  he,  the  mastiff,  who 
had  advised  him  to  aim  at  the  face.  On  the  ground  he  had 
remembered  nothing  but  that  counsel. 


CHAPTER  V 

The  case  had  come  up  expectedly  two  days  after  a  public 
holiday.  In  one  of  the  Italian  provinces,  on  that  festal  day  of 
patriotic  celebration,  some  of  the  municipal  board  and  the 
communal  council  had  made  most  overt  manifestations  of 
advanced  republican  sentiments.  The  royalist  councillors  had 
immediately  resigned  their  seats  ;  telegrams  had  been  de- 
spatched to  deputies,  newspapers,  men  of  influence ;  the 
question  had  all  in  a  moment  assumed  a  serious  aspect 

The  summer  season  had  arrived,  and  the  sittings  were 
dragging  along  in  weary  fashion ;  foreign  politics  had  already 
sunk  into  their  summer  sleep ;  no  important  laws  were  being 
passed ;  the  diversion  came  up  unexpectedly,  as  a  surprise,  and 
was  therefore  welcome,  and  received  general  attention.  The 
love-making  between  the  Chamber  and  the  Ministry  had  grown 
languid,  like  all  passions  meeting  response  and  gratification ; 
intimacy  had  brought  disgust  to  those  who  had  loved  too 
warmly,  and  the  commencement  of  the  dispute,  which  grew 
more  and  more  complicated,  was  the  lash  that  stung  the  sur- 
feited, apathetic  lovers  to  activity.  They  had  neither  the 
inclination  left,  nor  the  strength,  for  fervent  love.  They  now 
met  to  fight,  to  exchange  insults,  to  wage  a  war  of  suspicion, 
political  calumny,  and  private  slander.     The  chief  accused  was 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  183 

the  Minister  of  Home  Affairs,  who,  obedient  to  his  ideal 
worship  of  hberty,  had  not  found  it  in  his  heart  to  cast  off  the 
aforesaid  municipality. 

A  man  of  profound  thought,  large  ideas,  fine  character, 
accustomed  to  take  a  broader  view  of  political  questions  than 
was  tolerable  to  the  petty  spirit  of  other  politicians,  ever  rising 
to  a  lofty  conception  of  things,  he  stated  that  the  liberty  of 
political  conscience  must  be  respected.  In  private  amused  at 
the  unwonted  importance  attached  to  the  affair,  he  said  there 
was  '  no  likelihood  that  these  little  aldermen  would  burn  down 
the  temple  of  our  institutions.'  He  declared  publicly  that  the 
matter  was  trifling  ;  and  to  the  anxious,  deeply-concerned 
people  who  came  to  appeal  to  him  he  showed  the  calm  front 
of  the  superior  individual,  which  seemed  a  pretence,  but 
actually  was  the  security  of  a  quiet  mind. 

But  all  round  him,  surreptitiously  and  visibly,  raged  the 
desire  for  a  crisis.  All  the  malcontents,  the  ambitious,  the 
mediocre,  the  envious  incapables,  the  conceited  fools,  agitated, 
combined,  held  meetings,  talked,  harnessing  mediocrity  with 
envy,  ambition  with  conceit,  discontent  with  folly.  They 
shouted  in  the  cafes,  made  speeches  at  the  eating-houses, 
arranged  little  sub-conspiracies  in  the  parlours  of  the  furnished 
houses  where  deputies  had  lodgings,  behaved  like  arch-plotters 
at  the  tables  set  out  in  summer  by  Ronzi  and  Singer,  the 
liquor-sellers,  in  the  Piazza  Colonna. 

All  day,  at  all  the  railway- stations,  from  all  parts  of  Italy, 
deputies  were  arriving  with  small  hand-bags — the  emergency- 
week  bag,  into  which  a  careful  wife  packs  four  shirts,  six 
pocket-handkerchiefs,  a  pair  of  slippers,  a  clothes-brush,  and 


l84  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

so  on,  against  the  possibility  of  sudden  departure.  There  were 
already  three  hundred  and  fifty  deputies  in  Rome,  an  unusual 
number,  never  mustered  in  the  most  active  winter  sessions. 
And  probably  every  one  of  the  three  hundred  and  fifty  was 
expecting,  believing,  wishing,  hoping  to  become,  was  certain  of 
becoming,  a  Minister  after  the  crisis. 

The  Minister — a  strong,  good,  and  wise  man — either  did 
not  hear,  or,  if  he  did,  ascribed  no  importance  to  the  in- 
creasing clamour  about  the  crisis. 

•  There  will  be  no  crisis,'  he  smilingly  replied  to  those  who 
asked  him  about  it  in  friendly  conversation.  'There  will  be 
no  crisis,'  he  stated  to  those  whom  he  assured  of  the  fact  with 
a  preoccupied  air  of  condescension. 

At  bottom  he  knew  the  political  world  and  the  men  com- 
posing it.  He  was  fully  aware  that  the  Prime  Minister  was  on 
his  side,  that  the  seven  other  Ministers  were  with  him,  that 
this  powerful  body  of  nine  would  not  allow  itself  to  be  ousted 
for  no  earthly  reason  but  the  refusal  of  a  Mayor  to  sign  an 
address  to  the  King  and  his  raising  the  cross  of  the  tricoloured 
banner.  He  knew  the  furious  lust  for  power  of  his  eight 
colleagues,  the  tenacity  of  those  oysters  sticking  to  the  rock ; 
to  attain  it  they  had  gone  through  all  kinds  of  political  suffer- 
ings and  agony,  and  now  they  would  sooner  die  than  let  go 
their  hold.  He  smiled  as  he  thought  of  what  strength  pro- 
ceeds from  weakness  j  he  smiled,  and  felt  safe. 

But  he  passed  on  to  a  more  moral  flight  of  thought :  his 
fine  beliefs  were  still  intact  from  scepticism,  his  faith  in  human 
conscience  was  yet  unshaken.  He  felt  that  this  supreme 
worship  of  liberty  was  rooted  in  every  Italian  heart  and  brain 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  185 

he  knew  that  mean  interests  might  for  a  moment  possess  those 
hearts  and  brains ;  but  that  all  would  vanish  in  the  presence 
of  a  great  idea. 

Malicious  whispers,  misrepresentations,  false  or  fabricated 
news  which  reached  him,  were  without  effect ;  in  vain  would 
some  true  friend  caution  him  and  counsel  a  pessimistic  view. 
The  Home  Minister  maintained  his  ideality,  which  was  touched 
ever  so  little  with  bitterness  :  he  was  not  subject  to  defeat ;  he 
felt  morally  and  materially  secure,  united  with  his  brother 
Ministers  in  a  generous  cause  that  itself  was  strength.  He 
ignored  the  approach  of  a  pohtical  crisis,  this  Minister; 
besides,  in  the  political  caldron  all  kinds  of  characters  were 
cooking,  and  the  traits  of  every  section  of  Italy  were  repre- 
sented. The  Sicilians  were  conspicuous  for  their  warm  feeling, 
mixed  with  irony  and  common-sense ;  the  Neapolitans  shouted 
and  waved  their  arms ;  the  Romans  waited  patiently  and 
temporized,  but  knew  the  moment  for  action ;  the  Tuscans 
laughed  behind  their  spectacles,  smiled  mockingly  under  their 
moustaches,  Mephistophelian  and  ambitious  as  they  were,  and 
laughed  at  each  other  and  all  the  rest ;  the  Lombards,  with 
their  aristocratic  tendencies,  flocked  together  in  a  solitary 
group;  the  Piedmontese  and  the  Ligurians  came  and  went, 
and  made  a  bustle  without  speaking,  their  communications 
with  each  other  being  through  the  eye.  But  the  most  fiery, 
the  most  rebellious  and  wild,  were  the  members  from  the 
smaller  provinces — the  Abruzzi,  the  Marches,  the  Romagnas, 
the  Campania,  the  Calabrias,  the  countrymen,  the  representa- 
tives of  the  provinces  that  give  life  and  wealth  to  the  great 
cities,  the  deputies  who  had  a  genuine  love  for  politics,  who 


i86  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

believed  in  them,  who  thought  politics  were  the  greatest  force 
in  human  life,  who  became  drunk  with  them  as  with  strong 
wine. 

But  in  the  midst  of  all  these  latent  elements  of  discord  the 
men  of  the  Basilicata  never  spoke,  but  coalesced,  formed 
groups ;  frigid  and  impeccable,  they  asked  no  questions  and 
gave  no  answers.  The  Minister,  the  stanch  man  and  true,  felt 
safe ;  he  had  never  known  fear  at  any  juncture — and  now  he 
smiled. 

When  the  Minister  of  Home  Affairs  entered  the  hall,  on  the 
day  when  the  question  was  to  be  brought  up,  a  prolonged 
murmur  ran  along  the  benches.  He  did  not  fail  to  observe 
it,  but,  a  strong  man  in  great  things  and  small,  he  had  the 
good  sense  not  to  look  about,  nor  to  look  up  at  the  galleries. 
It  at  once  occurred  to  him,  however,  that  the  matter  was  more 
serious  than  he  at  first  had  considered  it.  Indeed,  on  the  first 
day  he  had  said  to  the  Prime  Minister,  in  a  tone  of  unconcern  : 

'  There  is  a  lot  of  talk  about  this  municipal  affair.' 

'Heat-blossoms,'  the  Prime  Minister  had  replied,  with  a 
smile. 

'  Do  you  agree  with  me  ?* 

'  Of  course  I  agree  with  you,'  answered  the  other,  without, 
however,  specifying  upon  what  points. 

'  Do  you  think  Don  Mario  Tasca's  speech  will  be  important  ?' 

'  One  of  the  usual  speeches.' 

And  they  talked  of  other  things. 

His  other  colleagues  in  the  Cabinet  had  shielded  themselves 
behind  a  strict  reserve.  Vargas  only,  the  Minister  of  Fine 
Arts,   a  lean,  dried -up  old  man,   consumed  by  devouring 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  187 

ambitions,  had  offered  some  uncertain  resistance,  which  the 
Minister  of  Home  Affairs  had  combated  in  an  uncertain 
tone.  In  the  Chamber,  however,  there  was  undeniable  evi- 
dence of  a  prospectively  hot  debate.  Turning  over  some  of 
his  papers  with  eyes  lowered,  the  Home  Minister  became 
conscious,  from  the  loud.  Parliamentary  buzz,  that  at  least 
400  members  must  be  present.  He  glanced  up  at  the  diplo- 
matic gallery,  where  the  Countess  di  Santaninfa,  lovely  and 
pensive,  and  dressed  in  black,  was  scanning  the  hall  with 
melancholy  eyes,  and  where  the  Countess  di  Malgra,  a  pale, 
seductive  blonde,  who  was  that  day  wearing  a  yellow  straw  hat, 
never  for  an  instant  ceased  from  intently  considering  the 
assembly.  The  civil  service  gallery  was  full;  in  the  press 
gallery  a  triple  row  of  heads  anxiously  bent  forward. 

'  They  smell  powder,'  thought  the  Minister.  And  he  looked 
at  his  two  or  three  brother  Ministers,  as  if  he  had  something 
to  tell  them,  but  they  wore  such  an  indifferent  air  that  he  said 
nothing.  He  therefore  merely  glanced  at  the  House.  It  had 
quieted  down,  but  had  a  hard,  solid  appearance  ;  it  was  a  sub- 
stantial body  of  400  silent,  expectant  men.  And  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  at  three  o'clock,  the  orator  of  the  Right,  Don 
Mario  Tasca,  began  his  address  from  the  top  bench  of  the  last 
section  but  one,  in  a  stillness  like  that  of  an  empty  church. 
The  Prime  Minister  had  come  softly  into  the  hall,  and  had 
sat  down  at  the  end  of  the  Cabinet  bench.  Don  Mario  Tasca 
was  a  white  -  haired  old  man,  with  pink  skin,  and  a  white 
beard  for  a  collar.  His  style  was  elegant ;  it  had  rounded 
periods  accompanied  and  completed  by  circular  manual 
gestures,   resembling  the  rotation  of   a  small  wheel.     The 


i88  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

speech  flowed  on  and  on,  softly  and  gently,  with  never  a 
failure  of  the  voice,  never  a  check,  just  like  the  song  of  a 
bird.  The  orator  did  not  look  at  the  Minister ;  he  looked 
into  the  air,  like  an  inspired  genius.  He  never  bent  his  head 
to  refer  to  his  notes,  but  was  as  one  who  knows  his  part  by 
memory.  But,  under  all  this  external  suavity,  his  discourse 
yet  sounded  of  rebuke  ;  the  speaker  mentioned  neither  indi- 
viduals nor  facts,  but,  confining  himself  to  terms  somewhat 
vague,  stated  that  certain  institutions  and  certain  ideas  were 
being  assailed  which  hitherto  no  one  had  ever  thought  of 
impugning.  It  was  a  speech  that  did  not  rail,  and  was  rather 
nebulous,  perhaps ;  still,  it  accused.  It  withheld  names,  but 
it  scorched  consciences. 

The  Minister  paid  close  attention,  and  from  time  to  time 
glanced  sideways  at  the  Premier,  who  never  once  turned  in  his 
direction  ;  the  other  Ministers  also  listened  attentively  to  Don 
Mario  Tasca,  who  continued  in  his  beautiful,  fluent  prose. 
All  the  deputies  were  turned  to  the  right  and  were  lending  ear ; 
up  above  the  whole  public  was  leaning  forward;  the  two 
Countesses — the  dark  and  the  fair — seemed  to  be  drinking  in 
Don  Mario  Tasca's  words. 

He  spoke  for  one  hour,  with  never  a  halt,  and  scarcely  a 
blunder,  and  without  the  least  change  in  the  colour  of  his 
vocal  tone.  He  challenged  the  Minister,  in  his  last  sentences, 
which  became  briefer  and  ever  more  contracted,  to  answer 
whether  he  intended  to  persist  in  this  criminal  do-as-you-like, 
go-as-you-please  system.  A  very,  very  long  murmur  of  applause 
rewarded  Don  Mario  Tasca. 

The  Minister,  before  replying,  tried  to  question  his  chief 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  189 

with  his  eyes,  but  the  Prime  Minister  was  writing,  and  this 
was  therefore  impossible.  He  then  rose,  and  answered  very 
placably,  very  judicially,  reducing  the  question  to  its  lowest 
terms,  declaring  it  unimportant,  planing  and  smoothing  all  the 
facts,  having  recourse  to  a  number  of  highly-sensible  arguments, 
foregoing  expansion  into  fine  language,  which  he  believed 
inept.  And  as  he  spoke  so  calmly,  he  looked  about,  casting 
questioning  glances  at  the  deputies'  faces,  as  if  seeking  their 
approval.  But  their  faces  did  not  light  up,  for  they  were 
displeased.  The  deputies  were  not  mollified — no,  not  they  ; 
they  had  come  here  wrought  up  by  a  week  of  debate  and 
anticipation,  the  matter  was  very  serious,  and  the  Minister  had 
tried  to  deal  them  another  hand  by  belittling  the  whole  affair. 

Fruitlessly  did  he  lavish  the  best  of  his  cleverness  and 
ingenuity,  as  well  as  striking  sallies  both  lucid  and  logical ;  he 
continued  in  the  wrong  key,  not  having  caught  the  spirit  of 
the  occasion,  blind  to  the  circumstance  that  good  oratory  was 
the  thing  on  a  day  when  a  crisis  threatened.  He  took  note  of 
the  general  dissatisfaction  but  without  understanding  its 
cause — he  still  thought  he  could  win  this  battle  with  the  plain 
weapons  of  reason.  But  glacial  silence  prevailed  in  the  hall 
at  the  close  of  his  defence. 

Niccolo  Ferro,  the  Radical  deputy,  hereupon  requested  the 
floor.  The  Minister  frowned ;  that  moment  foreboded  peril. 
Niccolo  Ferro,  the  best  speaker  of  the  Extreme  Left,  calm, 
lucid,  imperturbable,  strong  in  logic  as  in  rhetoric,  threw  so 
clear  a  light  on  the  situation  that  it  was  no  longer  subject  to 
doubt.  The  action  of  that  Mayor  was  held  up  in  its  real  and 
great  importance ;  it  was  a  sign  of  the  times ;  no  one  would 


I90  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

venture  to  violate  liberty  of  conscience  so  far  as  to  prohibit 
or  punish  such  manifestations.  He  treated  of  the  historical 
traditions  of  the  communes,  of  the  long  strife  in  Italy  for  the 
attainment  of  that  state  of  freedom,  which  was  yet  in  the  bud, 
but  which  would  soon  blossom  out.  A  Councillor  is  a  man, 
he  is  a  citizen,  said  the  orator;  he  thinks  according  to  his 
convictions,  and  acts  as  he  thinks.  Institutions  are  not 
destroyed  by  the  hands  of  men,  but  fall  because  of  their 
inherent  corruption ;  not  men  strangle  them,  but  new  ideas  are 
their  ruin.  They  fatally  rot  through  the  germs  of  disease  they 
contain ;  nothing  can  ever  save  them  when  decay  has  pro- 
gressed so  far. 

Fundamentally  Niccolo  Ferro  was  both  pleased  and  dis- 
pleased with  the  Minister,  and  he  declared  it  openly. 

He  was  displeased  because  he,  the  champion  of  liberty,  was 
attempting  to  throw  ridicule  on  the  courageous  and  bold 
conduct  of  this  clear-sighted  municipality ;  he  was  pleased 
because  he  knew  that  the  old  faith  never  changed  in  the  hearts 
of  upright  men,  despite  the  allurements  of  despotism  to  those 
in  power ;  and  he  was  convinced  that  never  would  a  tyrannous 
act  be  done  under  instruction  from  that  illustrious  man. 

The  illustrious  man  had  absorbed  the  whole  speech,  while 
nervously  twisting  his  gray  moustache.  He  looked  at  Niccolo 
Ferro,  his  friend,  very  gently,  quite  unreprovingly.  He  felt 
crushed ;  he  felt  the  amazement  of  the  Chamber  at  this  fresh 
piece  of  audacity  from  the  Radical  party  ;  he  felt  that  they  all, 
friend  and  foe,  wanted  to  force  him  into  an  equivocal  position, 
from  which  there  was  no  escape.  He  could  neither  declare 
himself  out  and  out  of  Niccolo  Ferro's  opinion,  nor  oppose 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  191 

him.  In  that  hour  he  was  conscious  of  having  indulged  in  a 
too  loyal  policy,  founded  on  truth  alone,  inspired  solely  by 
lofty  principles,  independent  of  men  and  events,  poetical 
almost  and  unreal — a  policy  so  unpractical  that  it  lent  itself 
to  ready  defeat  by  both  the  Right  and  the  Left  at  the  same 
time.  The  illustrious  man  recognised  all  this,  but  could  say 
nothing.  Possibly,  in  this  peril  the  old  Prime  Minister,  by 
addressing  the  house  in  his  kindly,  easy  way,  might  save  the 
situation ;  he  might  put  Don  Mario  Tasca's  mystical,  lyrical 
apprehensions,  and  Niccolo  Ferro's  uncalled-for  petulance,  in 
their  proper  places.  But  the  old  Premier  was  reading  a  letter, 
as  though  he  were  in  the  peace  of  his  study  instead  of  in  the 
tumult  of  the  hall. 

The  floor  was  then  given  to  the  Honourable  Sangiorgio,  and 
immediately  the  assembly  was  hushed.  The  Prime  Minister 
raised  his  hoary  head,  and  looked  at  the  Basilicatan  deputy  as 
piercingly  as  if  he  were  trying  to  read  his  soul ;  the  Home 
Minister  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief,  supposing  that  what  himself 
and  the  Premier  had  omitted  Sangiorgio  would  say.  San- 
giorgio was  clever,  and  was  friendly  to  the  Ministry,  so  that  he 
could  not  fail  to  set  things  right. 

Instead,  in  one  first  cruel  sentence,  the  Honourable  San- 
giorgio fell  fiercely  and  with  concentrated  wrath  upon  the 
Government's  home  policy.  Don  Mario  Tasca  and  Niccolo 
Ferro  had  said  too  little,  whether  for  or  against.  Things 
really  bore  a  far  graver  aspect.  For  a  year  back  the  worst  dis- 
order had  reigned  in  the  management  of  internal  affairs ;  there 
was  no  longer  a  guiding  hand,  no  longer  a  bridle ;  the  public 
officials  performed  their  duties  at  haphazard,  or  did  nothing  at 


192  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

all,  having  no  orders.  The  policy  of  the  Home  Department 
was  founded  on  equivocation  and  culpable  carelessness  ;  these 
elastic  theories  of  liberty  were  causing  havoc.  And  this  bitter, 
almost  tragical  vein  of  attack  was  readily  guessed  to  corre- 
spond to  the  sentiment  of  the  House,  which  murmured 
approval  of  each  sentence.  Sangiorgio  cited  facts.  He 
enumerated  the  Republican  associations,  which  in  the  course 
of  a  year  had  increased  beyond  measure ;  he  declared  that 
Republican  committees  were  multiplying  everywhere,  and 
likewise  rebellious  acts,  which  were  done  not  by  that  single 
Mayor,  nor  in  that  single  place,  but  by  other  public  officials 
elsewhere.  He  spoke  of  a  Prefect  who  had  consented  to  take 
part  in  a  banquet  where  toasts  to  the  King  were  prohibited, 
and  said  that  the  Minister  of  Home  Affairs,  although  he'  knew 
of  it,  and  in  spite  of  the  articles  in  the  Royalist  newspapers, 
had  not  reprimanded  such  Prefects,  Commissioners,  and 
delegates,  all  of  whom  were  allowed  the  free  scope  of  their  own 
opinions  and  own  will,  committing  deeds  inexcusably  arbitrary 
or  weak.  But  the  dominant  note  was  their  indolence,  their 
shameful  neglect.  No  energetic  circular  of  instructions  was 
ever  sent  from  Rome.  The  reports  of  the  most  zealous 
functionaries  always  remained  unanswered,  or  were  replied  to 
ambiguously  ;  at  Rome,  a  number  of  philosophical  and  socio- 
logical deductions  were  indulged  in,  but  never  was  an  energetic 
step  taken. 

The  Chamber  applauded  Sangiorgio  so  vociferously  that  the 
Speaker  was  obliged  to  call  for  order  twice.  Sangiorgio  spoke 
with  a  peculiar  hardness  of  voice,  with  such  sharp  accent  and 
brevity  of  phrase,   and  with  such  bare  simplicity,   that  the 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  193 

smallest  points  told.  His  facts  were  like  so  many  blows  from 
an  unerring  weapon,  each  striking  the  mark  remorselessly. 
It  was  a  document  of  impeachment,  a  summary  compiled  with 
the  cold  cruelty  of  a  judge  in  vindication  of  law  and  ethics. 
Sangiorgio's  face  was  set  and  severe,  his  features  were  rigid ; 
he  did  not  smile,  did  not  gesticulate,  nor  had  recourse  to  any 
of  the  common  artifices  of  oratory ;  he  seemed  to  be  so  sure 
of  his  cause,  and  so  wrapt  up  in  it,  that  he  considered  a  cold, 
precise  exposition  sufficient.  He  supplied  no  comments,  or 
very  few,  but  enumerated  facts,  proceeding  from  one  to  another, 
with  the  occasional  remark :  '  But  that  is  not  all ;  there  is 
more.'  This  sentence,  repeated  at  intervals  of  three  or  four 
minutes  with  the  regularity  of  a  tragic  refrain,  made  a  deep 
impression  ;  nervous  tremors  seem  to  run  down  the  spinal 
column  of  that  great  body  in  the  Chamber. 

The  atmosphere  of  Parliament  was  laden  with  electricity. 
No  one  was  writing,  no  one  was  reading — all  were  turned 
towards  the  speaker ;  groups  of  listeners  had  gathered  near 
his  section ;  some  had  even  climbed  the  stairs,  as  if  to 
drink  in  Sangiorgio's  words,  in  their  exaggerated  attentive- 
ness.  Up  above,  in  the  diplomatic  gallery,  had  appeared  the 
ever-beautiful  Countess  Lalla  d'  Ariccia,  who  was  the  surest 
barometer  of  a  crisis,  for  she  never  came  excepting  in  electrical 
weather.  Donna  Luisa  Catalani  was  leaning  over,  her  little 
head  tied  about  with  a  white  veil,  and  beside  her  Donna 
Angelica  Vargas  looked  down,  her  lovely  face  unveiled,  quite 
pink  at  the  temples,  under  the  excitement  of  curiosity. 

The  speaker  recapitulated  all  he  had  said,  using  his  synthesis 
upon  the  audience  with  the  force  of  a  hammer.     And  without 

13 


194  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

adding  any  deductions,  without  challenging  reply,  without  so 
much  as  expecting  one,  and  in  disdain  of  whatever  argument 
from  whatever  opponent,  he  read  out  the  following  motion  : 

'That  the  Chamber,  disapproving  of  the  Ministry's  home 
policy,  now  proceed  with  the  business  of  the  day.  Francesco 
Sangiorgio.' 

Then  there  arose  such  a  huge,  irrepressible  clamour  that  for 
five  minutes  the  Speaker  rang  his  bell  in  vain.  Discussion 
rang  all  over  the  hall,  on  the  steps,  in  the  hemicycle,  on  the 
benches,  in  the  galleries — everywhere.  The  ladies  in  the 
diplomatic  gallery  stared  and  stared,  themselves,  perhaps,  also 
seized  with  nervous  agitation. 

And  the  strong,  honest  man  who  was  Minister  of  Home 
AflFairs  had,  without  budging,  received  the  strokes  of  the 
Honourable  Sangiorgio  in  his  breast,  half  admiring  his 
adversary's  might. 

Only,  towards  the  end,  when  the  ultimate  solution  was 
becoming  plain,  a  growing  doubt  assailed  him.  After  that 
extremely  vigorous  attack,  coming  from  the  Centre,  from  a 
Ministerialist,  from  a  man  who  had  shown  democratic  leanings, 
the  situation  was  so  perilous  that  only  the  Prime  Minister 
could  relieve  it.  Defence  now  devolved  upon  the  senior,  the 
chief,  the  old  Parliamentarian.  A  new  and  bitter  suspicion 
sprang  from  the  Minister's  heart  to  his  head,  and  in  those  five 
minutes  of  Parliamentary  uproar,  like  certain  poisonous  plants 
indigenous  to  the  tropics  so  this  suspicion  spread  apace  in  his 
soul.  He  looked  at  the  old  Prime  Minister  as  penetratingly 
as  if  he  wanted  to  tear  the  truth  from  out  of  him,  yet,  fearing 
lest  some  emotion  might  cloak  his  voice,  he  said  not  a  word  to 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  195 

him,  nor  asked  him  a  single  question,  but  merely  looked  at  him, 
expecting  him  to  come  out  of  his  silence,  to  come  to  life,  for 
that  morning  he  might  as  well  have  been  dead.  The  Prime 
Minister,  however,  remained  speechless,  and  went  on  writing, 
stroking  his  beard  with  his  other  hand.  And  the  Minister  of 
Home  Affairs  suddenly  composed  himself  inwardly,  showing 
nothing  outwardly  but  a  slight  pallor. 

Certainty  was  at  hand,  and  it  was  irrefragable.  He  felt  him- 
self abandoned,  felt  himself  betrayed.  His  colleagues  and  the 
Prime  Minister  had  left  him  to  fall  alone.  They  had  already 
separated  from  him,  as  though  shunning  a  corpse  because  of 
its  nauseous  odour.  Assuredly  the  betrayal  was  complete ; 
they  wanted  to  be  rid  of  him,  as  of  a  diseased  arm  or  a 
cancerous  leg.  The  Chamber  would  have  none  of  him  hence- 
forth— that  he  felt.  When  the  Speaker  gave  him  permission 
to  answer  in  his  own  justification,  in  frank,  calm  tones  the 
illustrious  man  was  heard  to  say : 

'  I  have  no  remarks  to  make  ;  I  accept  the  Sangiorgio 
motion.' 

At  the  division,  a  majority  of  thirty  votes  went  against  him. 
The  Minister  of  Home  Affairs  had  fallen. 

A  week  after  the  official  Ministerial  organ,  all  the  other 
newspapers  following  suit,  published  this  : 

'  It  is  now  ascertained  that,  in  the  reconstruction  of  the 
Cabinet,  Don  Silvio  Vargas  will  exchange  from  the  Fine  Arts  to 
the  Home  Department.  The  Honourable  Sangiorgio,  in  vain 
requested  to  join  in  the  new  combination,  has  persistently  re- 
fused, and  has  left  for  the  Basilicata.' 


13- 


PART     III 


CHAPTER  I 

A  SOFT  breath  of  lamentation ;  a  dim  light,  which  the  blue 
flamelets  cast  against  the  massive  granite  walls  in  tedious  pagan 
obsequies  had  never  dispelled  ;  a  veiled  light,  which  the  yellow 
taper  of  Christian  burial  rites  could  not  strengthen  ;  a  chill, 
sepulchral  atmosphere ;  a  frequent  sob  of  music ;  a  great,  black 
mass  of  people,  lost,  as  it  were,  in  the  funeral  shadows ;  in  the 
air,  in  the  light,  in  the  flames,  in  the  music,  tears  shed  and  the 
desire  to  shed  more,  betokening  irremediable  woe. 

As  for  him,  sitting  in  his  place,  and  yielding  to  the  state  of 
melancholy  contemplation  which  by  infinite,  perpetual  grada- 
tions merged  into  grief,  a  secret  tremor  shook  his  fibres,  and 
made  his  pulse  throb  fast ;  and  by  a  natural  impulse,  con- 
scious that  he  was  trembling  and  pale,  he  turned  round, 
searching  for  something  in  the  faint  light  falling  from  the 
velarium. 

Beside  him  he  saw  that  sweetest  of  women,  Donna  Angelica, 
of  truly  angelic  mien.  She  was  habited  in  black,  in  deep 
mourning,  as  was  seemly  in  the  Pantheon,  sacred  through  the 
glory  and  the  death  of  the  Hero,  and  her  sad  eyes  were  fixed 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  197 

upon  a  candle  that  was  consuming  away.  She  saw  nothing, 
and  appeared  to  hear  nothing,  plunged  in  thoughts  assuredly 
sorrowful,  lost  in  her  mournful  dreams.  Sitting  next  to  a 
pillar,  she  had  tried  to  read  in  her  prayer-book  the  prayers 
beseeching  peace,  invoking  rest  for  the  departed ;  but  soon  the 
book  had  fallen  into  her  lap  half  open,  and  her  listless  hands 
had  not  taken  it  up  again. 

And  to  him  that  dearest  of  mourners,  pale  as  a  pearl  under 
her  black  veil,  her  sweet  lips  still  apart  for  the  passage  of  her 
prayer,  her  gaze  dissolved  in  sad  religious  meditation — to  him 
she  appeared  as  a  divine  shape.  And  everything,  the  fitful, 
blue  glare  of  the  lamps,  the  thin,  streaming  flames  of  the 
candles,  the  atmosphere  of  woe,  the  sorrowful  music,  the  dire 
gloom  that  had  overcast  even  the  ancient,  stolid  walls  of  the 
Pantheon,  the  incurable  malady  of  the  spirit — to  him  it  was  all 
embodied  in  that  female  form  sitting  near  him  :  she  personified 
the  whole  of  that  tepid,  damp  winter's  day,  on  which  the  sun 
was  dead  ;  she  was  the  moral  seat  of  the  tears  that  welled  from 
all  things;  she  was  the  magnetic  abyss  of  sorrow,  which  the 
sorrow  of  all  things  could  never  fill,  and  in  the  profound  shock 
of  his  system,  in  the  thrill  of  his  entire  being,  of  flesh,  blood, 
nerves,  muscle,  in  all  the  strong  composition  of  a  strong  man, 
there  was  aroused,  there  started  into  life,  grew,  abounded,  a 
sentiment  of  amorous  compassion. 

She,  all  unwitting,  gave  herself  up  to  her  woman's  fancies, 
which  wandered  among  the  tapers,  the  dark  sacerdotal  vest- 
ments glittering  with  gold,  the  tall,  almost  colossal,  human 
cuirassier  caryatides,  among  all  the  pale,  dejected,  sad,  sorrow- 
ful, or  indifferent  faces.     In  spite  of  the  immense  throng  of 


198  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

people  surrounding  the  catafalque,  in  spite  of  the  vague 
murmur  detaching  itself  from  them,  in  that  hour  of  spiritual 
freedom  she  lost  herself  completely — in  that  brief  restful  hour, 
that  hour  of  freedom  in  which  private  grief  was  renascent,  and 
melted  and  flowed  into  the  universal  grief.  Now  and  then,  at 
a  more  lugubrious  strain  of  music,  at  the  voice  of  a  singer 
bathed,  as  it  were,  in  tears,  at  a  sentence  monotonously 
chanted  in  minor  by  the  officiating  priest,  she  would  start,  and 
her  desolate  dream  would  begin  again,  moving  through  other 
phases  and  other  degrees,  in  other  circles  of  melancholy  ;  and 
in  a  new,  intenser  mood  did  she  set  out  upon  the  path  of  pain 
that  gentle  souls  all  must  travel.  She  did  not  weep,  for  the  occa- 
sion was  too  big,  too  solemn  ;  but  he  perceived  how  her  delicate 
eyelids,  as  finely  made  as  the  petals  of  a  flower,  were  shaded 
about  with  violet  •  there  had  tears  been,  there  more  would  flow. 
And  while  he  thus  ardently  gazed  upon  that  sweetest  of 
faces,  to  which  the  shadows  of  pain  imparted  a  nobly  ideal 
expression,  and  was  thinking  of  naught  but  that  white  face, 
half  impregnate,  half  saturate  with  tears,  and  had  forgotten  all 
else  in  his  amorous  contemplation  of  the  lady,  he  felt  a 
wonderful  change  within  himself.  The  infinite  grief  by  which 
she  seemed  oppressed  he  naturally  and  gradually  absorbed  into 
his  own  spirit ;  it  was  like  penetration  into  her  heart,  slow,  but 
infallibly  sure.  He  asked  not  the  meaning  of  it,  but  felt  his 
whole  self  disappear,  drown,  perish  in  that  woman ;  he  was 
mastered,  not  by  her,  perhaps,  but  by  what  she  felt.  The 
whole  vagueness,  mysteriousness,  and  unfathomableness  of  a 
feminine  grief,  without  lament  and  without  tears,  without 
foundation  and  without  limit,  which  had  appealed  to  his  heart 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  199 

now  seized  upon  his  brain,  invaded  it  and  took  possession, 
driving  out  all  other  ideas  whatever.  No,  it  was  no  longer 
compassion,  the  great,  natural  compassion  of  a  man  towards 
a  suffering  woman ;  compassion  is,  after  all,  a  personal  feeling ; 
compassion  is  something  egoistic ;  compassion  is  a  cry  from 
one's  self.  It  was  he,  he  who  was  suffering  now,  as  if  the 
torture  of  that  female  heart  were  his  own  torture  and  anguish ; 
it  was  he  who  felt  the  sharp  pricking  of  the  unshed  tears 
scorching  his  Uds;  it  was  he  who  was  in  the  throes  of 
altruistic  sympathy,  and  seemed  to  be  lost  in  anguish,  in  a 
great  waste  of  anguish,  as  that  woman  seemed  to  be  struggling 
in  a  void  of  suffering. 

And  as  the  obsequial  hour  advanced,  in  the  pagan  temple 
where  the  Hero  lay  in  state,  a  subtle  odour  of  Christian  incense 
went  up;  from  altar  to  roof  the  smoke  curled  upward  in 
graceful  spiral  shapes,  which  became  more  and  more  attenuated 
and  ethereal  until  they  vanished  above,  even  like  prayers 
ascending  to  the  Most  High.  The  incense,  too,  partook  of 
the  aromatic  savour  of  tears,  and  the  perfume  of  it,  going 
through  the  nostrils  to  the  brain,  profoundly  affected  the 
nerves,  caressing  them  into  a  state  of  voluptuous  woe.  In 
the  half-light  everything  seemed  to  sway  under  that  tragic, 
aromatic  kiss ;  the  women  had  all  bent  their  brows  to  conceal 
the  trembling  of  their  lips,  and  the  head  of  the  woman  he  was 
watching  was  bowed  down,  as  though  her  strength  was  gone. 
He  sustained  a  shock,  and  made  a  motion  as  if  to  support  her; 
but  a  sort  of  paralysis  fell  upon  his  limbs.  The  incense 
burned  and  burned  in  the  silver  censers,  without  flame,  over- 
coming his  last  efforts  of  resistance. 


200  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

A  bell  rang  faintly,  but  in  the  midst  of  such  silence  it 
sounded  sonorous ;  Donna  Angelica  slid  from  her  seat  down 
upon  the  cold  marble  floor,  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  was  no  more  than  a  heap  of  black  clothes  on  the  ground, 
unseen,  unseeing,  forlorn.  And  he,  without  kneeling,  without 
inclining  his  head,  without  praying,  felt  annihilated  in  the 
woman's  annihilation ;  everything  seemed  at  an  end  for  him, 
as  everything  was  for  her.  And  at  each  sound  of  the  bell,  as 
she  gave  a  start  as  though  called  by  a  distant  voice,  the  same 
action  was  reflected  in  him  ;  nothing  that  spiritually  took  rise 
in  her  but  was  expressed  in  him  by  reflection. 

A  line  of  priests,  with  lighted  tapers,  drew  up  round  the 
catafalque ;  a  silver  cross,  on  which  hung  the  dying  Saviour, 
stood  fronting  the  bier.  And  through  the  music  a  strident, 
rending  voice  was  heard — a  voice  that  did  not  sing,  but  cried ; 
a  voice  that  did  not  ask,  but  implored  :  *  Libera,  libera,  libera 
me,  Domine.'  The  Christian  prayer,  the  painful  cry  begging 
salvation,  made  the  sweet  lady  raise  her  eyes.  And  in  her 
features,  consuming  away  in  their  pallor  like  a  fading  flower, 
in  her  transfigured  features,  a  true,  intense  aspiration  was 
declared. 

Now,  while  the  piercing,  distressful  voice  of  the  singer  sued 
to  heaven  for  deliverance  with  religious  fervour,  Donna 
Angelica,  after  passing  through  all  the  stages  of  undefined 
grief,  felt  a  distinct  need  form  in  her  heart  She  now  spoke 
to  God,  her  lips  moving  as  she  prayed  for  deliverance.  What 
had  been  indefinite  till  then  now  was  defined :  it  was  deliver- 
ance— deliverance  from  all  that  had  been,  good  or  evil,  happi- 
ness or  wretchedness — '  From  all,  even  this,  O  Lord  1     From 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  201 

all,  even  what  has  been,  merciful  Lord !  From  all,  even  the 
dreadful  past,  O  God  of  pity !' 

As  for  him  who  lay  in  the  sepulchre,  and  whose  funeral 
obsequies  were  being  celebrated,  deliverance  had  come  to  him 
at  the  glorious  height  to  which  he  had  risen ;  he  had  found 
deliverance,  and  perhaps  special  grace.  The  weight  of  a  royal 
crown,  the  burden  of  a  reign,  the  heavy  responsibility  of  the 
law  and  of  the  majestic  will,  a  load  of  thought  and  care — 
deliverance  had  come  to  lift  all  from  his  soul,  now  at  rest  in 
the  ineffable  peace.  'As  the  King  sleeps,  so  let  me  sleep, 
O  Lord  !'  she  prayed.  *  As  Thou  hast  delivered  the  strong 
soul  of  the  King,  O  Lord,  so  do  Thou  deliver  my  weak  soul ! 
Even  if  Death  be  the  deliverer,  let  me  die  and  be  delivered, 
O  Lord  I' 

In  this  supreme  moment  the  lovely,  despairing  creature 
stretched  out  her  arms  to  heaven,  and  as  she  prayed  the  hot, 
rebellious  tears,  so  long  restrained,  coursed  down  her  cheeks. 

He  had  heard,  in  a  mysterious  way,  what  she  besought  of 
God.  And  that  mourning  petition,  that  last  appeal  of  sorrow, 
gathered  into  a  word,  that  agonized.  Christian  supplication, 
had  also  flowed  from  his  own  heart,  amid  the  music,  in  the 
sensuous  sadness  of  the  incense,  in  the  sepulchral  glimmer  of 
the  candles,  in  the  uncertain  rocking  of  the  light,  under  that 
blue-tinted  circle  of  the  velarium,  which  seemed  to  be  alive. 
There  sprang  up  in  his  virile  heart,  and  flowed  from  it,  the 
prayer  of  desolation  she  offered  up  ;  what  she  desired,  he 
desired.  An  exalted  satisfaction  of  the  soul  resulted  from 
this  feeling  of  a  common  desire ;  so  sharp  was  the  strain,  so 
intensely  was  his  will  concentrated  upon  a  single  object,  that 


202  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

his  being  seemed  multiplied.  And  as  he  turned,  and  saw  her 
feebly  weeping,  he  yielded  to  the  successive,  softening 
emotions  of  great  satisfaction  and  great  sorrow,  and  bowed 
his  proud  head.  In  truth,  he  also  was  weeping — for  very 
love. 

*  *  ♦  *  * 

Her  face  almost  buried  in  a  bunch  of  white  roses,  with 
which  she  was  toying,  and  whose  fresh,  strong  perfume  coloured 
her  cheeks,  Donna  Angelica  Vargas  was  listening  to  a  con- 
versation between  her  husband  and  Francesco  Sangiorgio. 

They  had  been  talking  politics  for  an  hour,  or,  rather,  Don 
Silvio  Vargas  had  been  talking,  as  he  reclined  in  his  easy- 
chair,  smoking  a  pestilent  Tuscan  cigar,  and  gazing  at  the 
dainty  flowers  painted  on  the  light  gray  ceiling  of  the  room. 
He  spoke  in  a  dry,  hissing  voice,  by  fits  and  starts,  and  in 
abrupt  phrases,  between  the  puffs  of  smoke ;  every  now  and 
then  he  tugged  at  his  spare  moustache,  which,  despite  his 
years,  had  remained  as  brown  as  his  hair.  Age  did  not  show 
in  that  lean  old  man,  excepting  in  the  thin  lines  at  the  corners 
of  the  eyes,  running  fan-shaped  to  the  temples ;  in  the  two 
deep  furrows  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  dug  out  by  his 
smile;  in  the  hardness  of  all  his  features,  become  almost 
rigid  \  in  the  fleshless  neck,  where  the  tendons  stood  out  like 
the  strings  of  a  violin.  But  otherwise  he  was  strong  and 
robust  in  his  leanness,  and  when  he  inserted  the  round,  un- 
framed  eyeglass,  suspended  on  a  black  cord,  under  his  eye- 
brow, his  features  assumed  a  certain  vivacity,  became  almost 
youthful. 

With  Don  Silvio  Vargas  this  eyeglass  was  an  infallible 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  203 

barometer  :  in  his  hours  of  rest  the  eyebrow  scarcely  retained 
it ;  in  the  hours  of  indifference  it  seemed  dull  and  tarnished, 
the  eye  behind  it  being  fixed,  and  closed  or  half  closed ;  in  the 
hours  of  utter  weariness,  of  disgust,  the  lens  loosened  from  its 
ring,  fell  upon  his  chest,  wandered  into  the  folds  of  his  coat 
and  waistcoat ;  in  the  hours  of  conflict,  in  skirmish,  and  in 
battle,  the  glass  stood  rigid  in  its  place,  clear  and  bright,  and 
his  eye  was  wide  open  and  scintillant.  Both  enemies  and 
friends,  too  much  in  earnest  to  be  observers,  never  took  note 
of  these  changes  until  later,  until  afterwards  ;  they  overlooked 
the  political  barometer ;  they  felt  the  man's  strength,  or  his 
weakness,  but  they  did  not  see  the  symbols  of  either. 

When,  after  luncheon,  Angelica  heard  Sangiorgio  announced, 
she  had  risen  to  leave  the  room,  but  her  husband,  as  he  folded 
up  a  newspaper  and  opened  another,  curtly  requested  her  to 
stay,  as  if  he  intended  to  be  obeyed.  She  remained  standing 
by  a  vase  of  cineraria,  flourishing  in  spite  of  the  severe  winter 
weather.  She  bowed  to  the  new  arrival,  and  did  not  join  in 
the  conversation.  Her  slender,  youthful  figure — she  had 
recently  quitted  her  mourning — was  clad  in  a  soft  gown  of 
claustral  colour,  material,  and  style;  a  thick  silk  girdle  en- 
circled her  waist,  and  her  beautiful  white  hands  were  lost  in 
the  amplitude  of  the  sleeves.  From  time  to  time  she  looked 
up ;  at  a  clever  or  spirited  remark  from  her  husband  she  would 
smile,  to  show  that  she  was  interested  in  the  conversation — 
that  she  understood,  that  she  approved.  At  a  reply  from 
Sangiorgio,  at  one  of  his  objections  or  statements,  she  would 
cast  a  brief  glance  of  appreciative  intelligence  at  him.  And 
meanwhile  she  tended  her  plants,  lovingly,  eyeing  them  with 


204  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

great  solicitude,  removing  the  dust  with  which  their  leaves  were 
covered,  breaking  off  the  little  dried  branches  and  the  decayed 
blossoms,  which  spoiled  their  beauty  and  freshness.  She 
went  to  and  fro  among  the  quantity  of  green  plants,  which  lent 
the  little  drawing-room  the  appearance  of  a  vernal  bower,  her 
tiny  white  hands  coming  out  of  the  wide,  nunlike  sleeves, 
her  fingers  pretty  as  a  child's.  As  she  bent  over  the  plants, 
the  white  nape  of  her  neck  was  visible,  where  her  dark  hair 
traced  a  thick  wavy  line.  When  she  turned  towards  Don 
Silvio  or  Sangiorgio,  it  was  seen  that  the  violet  shadows  were 
absent  from  her  sweet  face,  from  the  lids  which  had  shed  or 
suppressed  so  many  tears ;  charming  peace  reigned  there 
instead.  At  a  certain  moment  she  cast  an  inquiring  glance  at 
her  husband's  gloomy  face  ;  the  bright  eye  behind  the  single 
glass  told  her  to  remain.  Yet  she  had  finished  the  daily  visit 
to  her  plants.  She  took  a  bunch  of  roses  from  a  vase,  seated 
herself  in  an  arm-chair  near  a  bay-window,  and  inhaled  the 
scent  of  the  flowers,  while  a  little  colour  strayed  to  her  pale 
cheeks.  On  chairs,  tables,  and  mantel  lay  piled  a  number  of 
discarded  and  opened  and  uncut  newspapers,  smelling  strongly 
of  printer's  ink ;  ragged  packages  of  various  colours  were 
strewn  on  the  floor,  thrown  down  there  hastily  and  carelessly. 
But  Donna  Angelica  neither  took  up,  nor  touched,  nor  even 
looked  at,  any  of  the  newspapers ;  her  foot,  as  if  instinct  with 
neatness,  pushed  two  or  three  of  the  packages  aside.  She  was 
smelling  the  flowers. 

Sangiorgio  had  come  to  that  house  in  the  Piazza  dell' 
Apollinare  upon  the  invitation  of  Silvio  Vargas.  The  Minister 
of  Home  Affairs  had  stopped  him  on  the  threshold  of  the 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  205 

Pantheon,  had  passed  his  arm  into  his,  and  had  spoken  to  him 
in  an  undertone  for  several  minutes.  Then  he  had  insisted 
upon  his  coming  to  his  house,  not  to  his  office — yes,  to  his 
house,  where  they  could  talk  after  luncheon — and  why  the 
deuce  was  he  never  seen  there  ! 

'  To-morrow,  then  ?'  asked  Sangiorgio  hesitatingly.  '  What 
is  the  use  of  to-morrow  ?  No  !  to-day — this  very  day  !'  said 
Vargas.  He  repeated  that  he  must  talk  with  him,  and,  leaving 
Sangiorgio's  arm  for  his  wife's,  went  off  with  her. 

Sangiorgio  went  to  the  Piazza  Apollinare  at  one  o'clock. 
Fearing  he  might  be  too  early,  he  was  seized  with  a  fit  of 
hesitation  at  the  door.  But  once  inside,  he  was  quickly 
reassured  by  Don  Silvio's  cordial  manner.  Only,  while  the 
Minister  talked,  he  listened  to  be  sure,  but  followed  Donna 
Angelica  in  each  of  her  quiet,  graceful  movements. 

•Smoke!  Why  don't  you  smoke?'  Don  Silvio  urged  him, 
offering  him  some  cigars  while  he  chewed  the  end  of  his  Tuscan. 

Sangiorgio  looked  inquiringly  in  the  lady's  direction. 

'  My  wife  is  accustomed  to  it ;  she  does  not  object,'  briefly 
commented  the  Minister. 

Sangiorgio  did  not  smoke,  however,  Donna  Angelica's 
engaging  smile  notwithstanding.  Seated  near  a  little  round 
table,  he  listened  rather  than  spoke,  for  Don  Silvio  liked  to  be 
listened  to.  The  Minister,  who  adored  politics  with  the  fervour 
of  a  boy  of  twenty,  was  that  day  greatly  wrought  up  on  the 
subject.  In  the  very  abuse  he  levelled  at  politics,  in  the  very 
deprecations  he  showered  on  them,  in  his  now  sarcastically, 
now  angrily  nervous  speech,  the  flaming  passion  for  politics  was 
evident  that  burned  in  the  breast  of  the  old  Parliamentarian. 


2o6  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

And  from  Don  Silvio,  Sangiorgio  seemed  to  hear,  as  if  in  a 
dream,  a  portion  of  his  own  thought,  an  echo  of  his  own 
aspiring  ambition,  whose  fancies  he  had  never  confided  to 
a  Hving  soul.  He  recognised  the  same  fever  which  had  in- 
ternally consumed  him  for  years,  while  in  Don  Silvio  the 
spiritual  fire  found  expression  in  ideas  and  words.  The 
Minister  was  too  old,  and  too  passionate  by  nature,  to  hide  his 
feelings ;  he  no  longer  cared  to  dissemble  them.  That  inner 
flame  must  have  kept  Don  Silvio's  enthusiasm  aglow.  Thus 
did  Sangiorgio  reason  out  the  cause  of  such  prolonged  and 
lasting  vigour. 

Occasionally,  Don  Silvio,  as  he  looked  at  Sangiorgio,  sup- 
pressed the  sneer  which  deepened  the  furrows  at  the  corners 
of  his  mouth,  and  smiled  almost  tenderly.  Oh,  he  did  not 
forget,  not  he,  how  his  predecessor  had  fallen  after  a  speech 
and  a  motion  by  Sangiorgio ;  he  remembered  Sangiorgio's  brief 
refusal  to  enter  the  reorganized  Cabinet.  He  had  never  been 
able  to  testify  his  gratitude,  but  ever  since  the  opening  of  the  new 
session  had  shown  him  his  affection,  had  sought  his  company, 
consulted  him,  in  a  spirit  of  mingled  deference  and  cordiality. 

'  But,  at  bottom,  you  are  indifferent  to  power,'  said  San- 
giorgio, after  a  pause  in  the  conversation. 

*  No,'  answered  Vargas  frankly,  '  I  am  not  indifferent  to  it; 
I  like  it ;  I  wanted  it.  But  the  Opposition  disgusts  me. 
Sometimes  it  is  stupid,  sometimes  false,  sometimes  brutal,  and 
it  always  acts  in  bad  faith.  Where  is  our  loyal,  bold,  cruel, 
implacable  Opposition  ?  Instead  of  open  attack,  they  indulge 
in  low  pantry  gossip  ;  instead  of  fighting,  they  sneak  in  corners ; 
instead  of  an  open  onslaught,  it  is  trickery !' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  207 

'  Man  is  a  paltry  creature,'  observed  Sangiorgio. 

'  He  ought  not  to  be,  or  ought  not  to  appear  so,  if  he  is. 
By  the  Ivord  !  have  I  not  been  in  Opposition,  too  ?  You  re- 
member, Angelica,  when  I  was  in  Opposition?' 

'  I  remember,'  she  answered  in  the  sweetest  voice,  raising 
her  head. 

*  I  was  a  devil.  I  took  no  rest,  and  gave  my  enemies  none. 
Never  a  moment's  truce !  Now  I  am  petrifying.  I  cannot 
make  war  now,  I  must  wait  for  it ;  and  this  eternal  brigandage 
makes  my  blood  boil !  How  you  fell  upon  the  Minister  that 
day,  Sangiorgio !  And  you  were  Ministerial !  Were  you  there 
that  day,  Angelica  ?' 

*  Yes,  I  was  there.' 

*  And  it  is  to  you  we  owe  it  that  I  am  Minister  of  Home 
Affairs,'  said  Vargas  with  emotion. 

'  Oh  no  !'  murmured  Sangiorgio,  smiling. 

'  Yes,  yes  !  The  Prime  Minister  would  never  have  had  the 
courage  to  disavow  his  colleague  openly.  It  surprises  me, 
nevertheless,  that  he  spoke  of  it  to  you ;  no  one  was  aware  of 
it — not  even  myself.' 

'The  Premier  had  told  me  nothing,'  replied  Sangiorgio 
deliberately. 

*  What !  you  knew  nothing  about  it  ?' 
'  Nothing.' 

'  There  was  no  understanding  ?' 
'No.' 

'  By  God !'  exclaimed  Vargas,  '  you  are  wonderful !' 
And  he  admiringly  looked  Sangiorgio  all  over.     The  latter 
laughed  formally,  but  immediately  perceived  that  Angelica's 


2o8  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

face  was  losing  its  serenity,  and  was  invaded  by  an  air  of 
fatigue. 

'  Come  to  the  Chamber  with  me,  Sangiorgio ;  it  is  two 
o'clock,'  said  Vargas,  rising  to  take  his  departure. 

*  Shall  you  be  back  soon  ?'  asked  his  wife,  fighting  down  her 
appearance  of  lassitude. 

'  No ;  there  is  the  Chamber  first,  and  then  the  Senate,  and 
afterwards  I  must  go  to  my  office,  to  arrange  about  a  transfer 
of  some  Prefects.' 

*  Shall  you  be  here  at  seven  ?' 

*  About  eight  or  nine — I  don't  know.' 

*  Shall  I  call  for  you  at  the  Chamber  ?' 

»  '  No,  go  for  a  walk  to  the  Villa  Borghese,  or  outside  the 
Porta  Pia — anywhere  you  like.  It  is  no  use  coming  to  the 
Parliament  !  I  shall  dine  after  I  have  finished.  This  afifair 
about  the  Prefects  is  very  serious.  I  will  tell  you  about  it  on 
the  way,  Sangiorgio.  If  any  letters,  or  messages,  or  despatches 
arrive,  let  them  be  sent  at  once  to  wherever  I  am,  in  the 
Chamber,  or  the  Senate,  or  my  office.  I  am  expecting  im- 
portant news.     I  am  coming,  Sangiorgio.' 

And  orders  were  dealt  out,  short  and  concise,  to  his  wife 
and  to  the  secretary  who  had  entered  the  room ;  they  were 
delivered  in  a  tone  of  military  command.  Don  Silvio  stood 
there  firm,  erect,  and  strong,  like  a  young  man.  His  feverish 
ardour  was  his  support ;  his  enthusiasm  was  his  salvation.  He 
went  into  his  study,  taking  his  secretary  with  him,  speaking  in 
low  tones  and  very  sharply.  Francesco  a«nd  Angelica  remained 
alone,  he  standing  upright,  she  with  head  bent  as  if  in  prayer, 
her  fingers  playing  with  the  silk  girdle  about  her  waist.     They 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  to^ 

did  not  speak,  and  the  moments  went  by  in  the  prolonged 
vibration  of  a  musical  beat.  Suddenly  she  looked  at  him  with 
saddened  eyes,  clasped  her  hands,  and  said  : 

'  Why  did  you  want  us  to  have  this  Home  Minister's  place  ?' 
And  her  voice  trembled  with  restrained  feeling. 

Don  Silvio  returned  with  overcoat  and  hat,  rolling  the  ex- 
tinguished stump  of  his  Tuscan  cigar  between  his  lips,  his 
secretary  following,  with  a  portfolio  full  of  papers. 

'  Would  you  like  a  rose  ?'  said  Angelica  to  her  husband,  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment,  offering  to  put  one  in  his  button- 
hole. 

•  What  can  you  be  thinking  of  !'  he  cried,  repelling  the 
white  hand  with  a  certain  degree  of  roughness.  '  Do  you 
want  the  Opposition  to  quizz  me  ?  A  Minister  with  a  rose  ! 
I  should  become  the  subject  of  caricatures  in  the  newspapers 
at  once  !' 

Donna  Angelica  timidly  drew  back,  casting  a  furtive  glance 
at  Sangiorgio.     But  she  did  not  give  him  the  rose. 

***** 

A  low  sky,  with  gray,  leaden,  heavy  clouds,  becoming  black 
on  the  horizon,  over  the  Tusculan  hills,  on  Soratte,  which  itself 
might  have  been  a  great  cloud  settled  down  upon  the  earth  ; 
the  Campagna  bare  and  wan,  undulating  in  places  as  though 
heaving  up  its  inwards ;  two  black  hedges,  two  prickly  scant 
hedges,  without  a  sign  of  green,  without  a  blossom  ;  a  tavern, 
with  a  rude  depiction  on  the  damp  wall  of  three  black 
decanters  standing  on  a  triangle  and  a  girl  drinking  wine,  but 
with  doors  and  windows  barred  by  decayed  wooden  shutters  ; 
the  large  gray  building  where  the  widow  Mangani  gives  Roman 


2IO  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

summer  and  autumn  holiday-makers  tripe  in  sauce  to  eat  on  a 
terrace,  in  an  arbour,  or  in  a  small  yard,  where  there  is  room 
for  a  table  and  a  pint  of  white  wine ;  the  curious  ruin,  alone 
in  a  field,  which  bears  the  semblance  of  a  gigantic  armchair 
with  a  chipped  back,  and  which  in  fact  is  known  as  the 
Devil's  Chair ;  a  carter  lying  dozing,  face  down,  on  a  load  of 
volcano  ashes  he  was  bringing  into  Rome ;  an  occasional  fat 
drop  of  rain  that  fell  upon  the  ground ;  this  side  St.  Agnes' 
a  Cardinal's  carriage  returning  leisurely  from  the  Catacombs, 
and  a  few  priests  walking  on  both  sides  of  the  road ;  im- 
mediately beyond  St.  Agnes'  two  carabineers  sitting  rigid  on 
horseback,  wrapped  up  in  their  dark  cloaks ;  a  gentle,  mild 
breeze  that  swept  the  earth ;  a  pungent  smell,  the  peculiar 
smell  of  the  Roman  Campagna,  which  goes  to  the  brain,  and 
from  the  brain  goes  into  the  system  like  an  insidious  miasma  ; 
a  strange  dog,  all  muddy,  that  went  sniffing  along  the  hedges 
and  looked  at  every  wayfarer  with  sad,  unhappy  eyes — these 
were  the  things,  people,  animals,  surroundings,  seen  by 
Francesco  Sangiorgio,  towards  the  close  of  a  winter's  day,  in 
the  Via  Nomentana.  And  over  all  things,  animals,  houses, 
churches,  hung  the  deep  gloom  of  the  imminent  rainstorm, 
the  tremendous  gloom  of  a  Roman  sunset  in  the  Campagna. 

*  Here  is  the  Ponte  Nomentana,'  said  the  coachman,  pointing 
to  it  with  his  whip. 

'  Stop ;  I  wish  to  get  out.  And  wait  for  me  here,'  said 
Sangiorgio. 

He  walked  up  the  little  slope  to  the  bridge,  the  strange 
walled  bridge,  whose  broad,  graceful  arch  curves  over  the 
gurgling  waters  of  the  Aniene,  with  two  large  casements  facing 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  211 

up  stream  and  down.  Sangiorgio  stood  on  the  bridge,  and, 
leaning  on  a  ledge,  looked  into  the  distance  whence  the  river 
came. 

It  flowed  with  a  narrow,  but  deep,  winding  and  singularly 
rapid  current,  increased  by  winter  rains  ;  it  flowed  a  dull, 
silvery,  but  cold  white,  without  a  shimmer  and  utterly  glacial. 
A  number  of  little  whirlpools  took  shape,  tiny  circles  with  an 
interior  mouth  round  which  the  water  coursed  in  circular 
ripplets. 

On  the  bank  was  a  little  mould  of  lighter  colour,  but  no 
vegetation,  no  gravel,  no  volcano  ashes,  and  round  about  was 
the  great  desert  of  the  Roman  Campagna. 

It  was  not  raining  as  yet,  but  the  vapours  from  the  river  and 
the  moist  sirocco  had  imparted  a  certain  dampness  to  the  old 
bridge,  and  as  he  touched  the  wall  at  a  casement  where  he 
was  standing,  Sangiorgio  felt  the  trickling  wet ;  the  elbows  of 
his  coat  were  soaking  and  dirtied.  He  scanned  the  Campagna 
intently,  but  neither  the  poorest  specimen  of  a  tree  nor  the 
meanest  specimen  of  a  human  being  was  in  sight  ;  the  river, 
which  at  Tivoli  is  so  magnificent,  so  gay,  so  clamorous,  over 
there  ran  to  a  very  mournful  strain. 

He  then  posted  himself  at  the  casement  on  the  left,  and 
watched  the  water  flow  swiftly  down  to  join  the  Tiber.  From 
here  the  Via  Nomentana  was  seen  to  continue  over  the  plain, 
to  make  an  angle  and  vanish.  In  the  middle  of  a  field  stood 
a  cottage,  a  tumbledown  hovel,  with  two  rooms  and  no  ceiling, 
and  walls  like  broken  teeth ;  at  the  corner  of  the  road  was  a 
tidy,  white  little  cottage,  the  Huntsman's  Inn,  from  which  a 
fine  meadow  stretched  down  to  the  river.     In  the  water  stood 

14 — 2 


212  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

willow  bushes,  with  blackish,  scrawny  branches  ;  on  the  banks 
were  small  willows,  equally  scrawny.  A  boat  was  held  in  the 
stream  by  means  of  a  rope  attached  to  a  wooden  post  driven 
into  the  shore  ;  the  water  broke  gurgling  against  boat,  willows, 
and  rope. 

With  the  descending  darkness,  the  sky,  too,  seemed  to 
descend.  Gazing  with  the  strenuousness  of  an  earnest  searcher, 
Sangiorgio  perceived  a  closed  carriage  to  stop  near  the  Hunts- 
man's Inn,  but  it  had  halted  in  such  a  way  that  he  could  see 
neither  horse  nor  coachman.  And  then,  from  afar,  on  the 
river's  right  bank,  he  saw  a  dark  spot  that  grew  and  grew,  and 
he  recognised  the  sweet  lady  who  had  wept  in  church. 

Dressed  in  black,  she  wended  her  solitary  way  along  the 
river,  walking  up-stream,  pausing  every  now  and  then  to  look 
at  the  speeding  current ;  she  moved  gently,  very  close  to  the 
water,  sinking  into  the  spongy  soil,  advancing  with  measured 
footsteps. 

When  she  had  drawn  nearer,  he  observed  against  the  dark 
dress  the  bunch  of  white  roses  from  the  room  at  home  full  of 
green  plants ;  she  held  them  clasped  to  her  waist  with  her 
hands.  Two  or  three  times  she  turned  to  the  horizon,  in 
admiration  of  the  sad  sky,  which  seemed  about  to  smother  the 
earth,  and  looked  for  the  Tusculan  hills  already  hidden  by  the 
approaching  storm.  Then  she  resumed  her  lonely  walk  with 
such  lightness  of  action  that  she  seemed  barely  to  graze  the 
earth. 

Not  once  did  she  raise  her  eyes  to  the  walls  of  the  bridge, 
to  the  wide  casement  where  stood  he  who  was  watching  her. 
Assuredly  she  believed  herself  in  absolute  solitude,  in  that 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  213 

vast  bare  Campagna,  that  threatening  tempest,  that  last  hour 
of  daylight,  that  melancholy  landscape,  from  which  the  vulgar 
would  shrink;  she  believed  herself  alone,  as  if  in  church, 
praying  to  God,  speaking  to  God. 

At  fifty  paces  from  the  bridge,  near  the  rotten  post  to  which 
the  boat's  rope  was  tied,  Donna  Angelica  stopped  short.  She 
looked  as  if  she  had  been  suddenly  overtaken  by  fatigue, 
despite  the  slowness  of  her  gait,  or  perhaps  she  had  succumbed 
to  the  great  fascination  of  running  water  that  seizes  upon  the 
spirit  of  the  beholder  and  keeps  it  under  a  spell.  Indeed, 
leaning  against  the  post,  as  if  rooted  to  the  river-bank,  at  one 
step  from  the  coursing  stream,  which  bent  the  dark  boughs  of 
the  willows,  Donna  Angelica  was  entirely  lost  in  contemplation 
of  the  river. 

An  immense  dark  roof  of  clouds — a  shroud  forestalling 
night — now  shut  in  the  whole  horizon  round  about,  and  the 
light  seemed  slowly  perishing,  as  if  being  crushed  between  sky 
and  earth.  Sangiorgio  was  unconscious  of  everything  save 
that  female  form,  standing  stark  as  a  statue  on  the  bank  of  the 
river.  But  a  rumbling  noise  came  from  the  Via  Nomentana, 
a  sound  of  wheels,  of  trotting  horses ;  and  in  the  gray  light 
something  red  and  bright  flashed  by.  Under  the  lowered  hood 
of  a  Daumont  carriage  something  white  passed  by — a  fugitive 
face,  a  royal  face.  The  royal  carriage  crossed  the  bridge  at 
a  trot,  the  royal  lady  having  responded  to  Sangiorgio's  bow ; 
and  the  whole  brief,  vivid,  transient  vision  disappeared  in  the 
direction  of  Rome.     Sangiorgio  again  turned  to  the  river. 

The  lady  was  unaware  of  all  this.  Lost  in  thought,  the 
noise  and  the  purple  passage  of  the  royal  equipage — a  sort 


214  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

of  brilliant,  gleaming  comet,  which  for  an  instant  had  lit  up  the 
darkness  of  the  cloud-ensombred  twilight — had  escaped  her. 
She  seemed  to  be  unable  to  tear  herself  away  from  the  sight  of 
the  austere  Aniene,  with  its  gelid  waters.  He  saw  her  bend 
over  several  times,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  mirror  herself  in 
the  river,  or  to  discern  the  bottom  of  it.  Her  fingers  here- 
upon plucked  a  rose  to  pieces,  and  threw  the  white  leaves  into 
the  hurrying  flood,  which  carried  them  away ;  one  after  another 
she  picked  off  all  the  leaves,  throwing  them  adrift  upon  the 
current  by  handfuls.  She  did  not  angrily  ravish  the  white 
leaves  from  their  stem,  but  detached  them  lingeringly,  as  if 
everything  in  her  soul  were  actually  departing  or  dying  with 
the  departing,  dying  leaves.  The  hands  relinquishing  those 
floral  lives  had  also  known  the  desolation  and  death  of  other 
lives.  The  last  leaf,  indeed,  faded  between  her  fingers.  He 
could  not  see  all  this  from  the  distance,  but  he  guessed  it ;  and 
as  the  last  leaf  went,  withered  and  crumpled,  he  felt  a  languor 
as  of  death  overtake  him.  After  a  last  look  at  the  Aniene, 
the  lady  went  back  to  the  road  without  a  backward  glance, 
and  got  into  her  carriage.  It  passed  over  the  bridge  at  high 
speed.  Donna  Angelica  did  not  see  Sangiorgio,  but  he  saw 
very  plainly  how  the  pale  creature  was  still  pressing  the  stripped 
stems  of  the  dead  roses  to  her  side. 


CHAPTER  II 

From  his  Centrist  bench,  where  he  was  pretending  to  write 
letters,  but  where  he  was  in  reality  mechanically  tracing  her 
name  twenty,  thirty  times  on  a  sheet  of  paper,  he  distinctly 
saw  Donna  Angelica  Vargas  alone  in  the  diplomatic  gallery, 
leaning  on  its  velvet  edge.  He  had  felt  her  presence  suddenly, 
with  a  nervous  shock ;  he  had  ventured  to  turn  two  or  three 
times  to  bow  to  her.  She  had  responded  with  a  grave  smile, 
but  had  immediately  looked  away.  He  knew  no  desire  but  to 
go  up  there  and  sit  beside  her,  only  he  thought  perhaps  it 
would  be  improper  to  be  seen  by  so  many  of  his  colleagues, 
to  make  an  exhibition  of  himself.  Later  the  desire  became  so 
strong  that  he  rose  from  his  seat,  crossed  the  hall,  and  went 
out  into  the  corridor,  where  he  wandered  about  abstractedly, 
giving  monosyllabic  replies  to  all  who  spoke  to  him  about  the 
University  Reform  Law.  Upon  returning,  he  still  lacked  the 
courage  to  go  up,  and  was  ashamed  of  his  own  cowardice. 
When  ke  was  near  the  Ministerial  Bench,  Don  Silvio  Vargas 
called  to  him : 

*  Sangiorgio,  listen ' 

And  he  told  him  something  about  the  Communal  and  Pro- 
vincial Law,  which  was  then  being  discussed  for  the  third  time. 

Don  Silvio's  friendship  for  Sangiorgio  had  grown  rapidly  in 


2i6  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

a  short  period.  Whenever  he  was  in  doubt  as  to  some  political 
or  administrative  question,  he  took  him  to  his  house,  consulted 
him,  or  had  long  conversations  with  him  at  his  office.  This 
time  he  had  another  idea  to  submit  to  him.  Sangiorgio  gave 
him  his  opinion,  and  then  added : 

*  Is  Madame  Vargas  up  there  ?' 

'  Oh  yes,'  said  Vargas  quite  indifferently,  without  turning  his 
head.     '  Do  you  think  these  clauses  will  be  debated  on  ?' 

*  Yes,  especially  the  fourth  ;  the  Extreme  Left  attaches  great 
importance  to  it' 

*  Shall  you  speak,  Sangiorgio  ?' 

*  I  hardly  know ' 

'  You  ought  to  speak.  Listen  :  come  to  dinner  at  my  house 
to-morrow ;  I  want  to  explain  some  of  my  views  to  you.' 

*  I  shall  be  there,'  replied  the  other  after  a  moment's  hesitation. 
Hereupon  he  moved  off,  but  the  Minister  whispered  to  him 

to  come  back. 

*As  you  are  going  to  sacrifice  yourself  to  me,  go  up  and 
keep  my  wife  company  for  a  little.  She  is  bored  to  death,  and 
I  have  not  even  time  to  nod  to  her.' 

*  She  is  bored,  you  say  ?* 

*She  loathes  politics.  Woman  is  selfish,  my  dear  San- 
giorgio,' answered  Don  Silvio  philosophically,  squeezing  his 
glass  in  under  his  eyebrow. 

Sangiorgio  gathered  up  his  papers  with  ill-dissembled  haste, 
thrust  them  into  his  locker,  traversed  the  hall  and  corridors, 
and  went  up  the  stairs,  curbing  himself  lest  he  should  run. 
But  Donna  Angelica  did  not  turn  round  upon  hearing  the  door 
of  the  gallery  open. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  217 

'Are  you  very  tired  ?'  he  gently  asked  over  her  shoulder. 

'Not  more  so  than  usual,'  she  responded,  turning  slightly 
and  putting  out  her  hand  to  him,  without  manifesting  the  least 
surprise. 

He  sat  down  behind  her.  She  spoke  to  him  without  looking 
at  him,  which  she  would  also  have  done  had  he  been  beside 
her,  for  she  was  looking  down  into  the  hall. 

'  But  you  seem  to  come  here  often,'  he  urged. 

*  Yes,  often.  Even  our  dislikes  become  habits  ;  and  besides 
— Silvio  is  a  Minister,  and  many  people  think  I  am  an  in- 
fluential woman.  At  home  there  is  a  constant  stream  of  them 
who  want  something.' 

'One  can  close  one's  door.' 

'  Yes,  if  one  happens  to  be  an  ordinary  woman,  but  not  if  one 
is  the  wife  of  a  politician,  of  a  Minister.  Don  Silvio  is  always 
afraid  I  shall  make  him  lose  his  popularity.'  Her  voice  was 
choked  with  bitterness. 

'No  doubt  you  often  must  endure  vulgar  acquaintances?' 
he  asked  in  a  sympathetic  tone  that  made  her  change  colour. 

'Yes,  I  am  indulgent  enough.  It  is  natural  to  me  to  be 
indulgent.     But  vulgarity  is  offensive  and  painful  to  me.' 

'  You  must  keep  your  heart  up.' 

'  My  heart  ?  The  heart  does  not  enter  into  the  question  at 
all !  It  is  the  moral  being  that  suffers,  and  the  nerves.  So  I 
prefer  to  come  here  ;  it  is  the  lesser  of  two  evils.' 

'  Do  you  hate  politics  so  much  ?'  he  ventured. 

'  I  do  not  hate  them,  and  I  cannot  like  them.' 

'  Nevertheless,  it  is  a  great  and  noble  idea,'  he  hazarded 
again. 


2i8  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

'  So  they  say — but  I  do  not  believe  it.  I  understand  other 
ideas  as  being  noble,  good,  great,  generous,  fruitful — not  this 
one.     I  am  too  ignorant,'  she  added  humbly. 

*  No,  no,'  he  hastened  to  assure  her.  *  You  are  perhaps 
right !' 

'  I  am  unable  to  like  this  idea.  To  us  women  certain 
ideas,  abstract  ideas  especially,  convey  nothing.  We  require 
something  real,  represented  by  something  concrete — religion 
by  the  Church,  the  figure  of  the  Holy  Virgin,  Christ;  our 
country  by  lovely  scenery,  the  sea,  the  mountains,  the  friends 
we  love.  But  politics — a  mere  idea — what  is  there  to  stand 
for  politics  ?' 

*  The  politicians,'  he  murmured,  after  holding  back  a  little. 

*  Oh  yes  !'  she  exclaimed  with  cold  disdain. 
'  Do  you  hate  them,  too  ?' 

'I  pity  them.' 

He  felt  no  impulse  to  retort,  but  an  expression  of  pain  came 
over  his  face. 

'  Well,  look  at  them  all ;  look  at  them.  Honourable  !  Look 
at  the  haggard,  worn  faces,  yellow  with  bile,  green  with  envy  ! 
Look  at  the  fat,  flaccid  faces,  pale  and  unhealthy!  How 
worn  out  before  their  time  are  some  of  those  men,  and  what 
nervousness  in  the  gestures  of  others  !  They  all  seem  afflicted 
with  the  same  disease — a  fatal  malady  which  eats  them  up  or 
swells  them  out.  I  imagine  that  gamblers  in  the  gambling 
dens  must  be  like  them.' 

'At  least,  politics  are  a  great  passion,'  he  timidly  suggested. 

*  Great  ?  Perhaps.  So  people  say,  but  I  do  not  believe  it. 
When  politics  possess  the  soul,  they  fetter  it  with  contemptible 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  219 

pride,  paltry  ambitions.  Down  there  are  three  hundred  people, 
who  have  minds,  and  who  are  educated,  who  have  physical 
and  moral  courage,  who  have  honest  consciences  and  manly 
characters.  Very  well ;  those  three  hundred  clever,  brave 
men,  those  three  hundred  wills,  those  consciences,  those 
intelligences — what  do  they  all  want,  without  exception,  at  any 
cost  ?' 

•To  be  Minister.' 

'  Minister — at  any  cost  whatever.  And  in  that  unrelenting 
pursuit,  pray  ask  yourself,  does  not  the  mind  ever  go  miserably 
to  waste?  Does  not  that  mind,  capable  of  creating  wonders 
of  beauty  and  utility,  if  it  were  applied  to  the  arts  and  sciences, 
often  accomplish  nothing?' 

•  It  is  true,'  he  admitted. 

'  To  invent  a  machine  which  will  benefit  mankind,  morally 
or  physically,  is  that  not  better  than  overthrowing  a  Ministry  ? 
Is  it  not  better  to  carve  a  statue,  paint  a  picture,  or  write  a 
book  ?' 

'  It  is  true,'  he  averred. 

'  As  for  bravery,  do  you  think  its  true  impetuosity  can  be 
preserved,  and  its  true  dashing  valour,  here,  where  everything 
is  summed  up  in  a  speech,  where  all  worthy  initiative  is 
frittered  away  in  twenty-five  public  sittings  and  fourteen  dis- 
cussions in  committee  ?    All  words,  all  words !' 

'  But  we  fought  when  we  were  wanted.' 

'  Ah  !*  she  said,  suddenly  become  thoughtful,  *  those  were 
times !  We  women,  you  see,  understand  the  heroism  of  the 
battlefield  and  of  conspiracies,  but  ParUamentary  heroism 
escapes  us  !' 


220  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

For  a  moment  they  maintained  silence.  Donna  Angelica's 
cheeks  were  aflame,  and  her  hot  words,  surging  into  San- 
giorgio's  soul,  made  their  imprint  there  as  if  on  soft  wax. 

*  And  then  there  is  conscience,'  she  resumed,  purposing  to 
speak  out  her  mind  fully.  '  Heavens !  how  can  it  remain 
clean  among  so  many  personal  schemes,  so  many  unavoidable 
bargains,  so  much  equivocation?  How  can  it  be  changeless 
and  inflexible  when  the  surest  virtue  leading  to  success  is 
actually  elasticity  ?' 

*  True,  true,'  he  repeated. 

'Some  are  mad  over  politics,  I  know  very  well,'  she  con- 
tinued, looking  down  into  the  hall,  her  fingers  playing  on  the 
velvet  edge  of  the  gallery.  *  We  all  know  that,  we  politicians 
wives.  In  the  hearts  of  these  men  it  is  a  passion  which  dries 
up  all  the  others.  If  we  live  in  the  provinces,  our  husband 
leaves  us  for  nine  months  in  the  year,  without  a  thought  of  his 
wife's  youth,  beauty,  or  solitude.  If  we  come  to  Rome,  it  is 
worse.  The  house  becomes  a  small  Parliament,  where  con- 
spiracies are  hatched  if  we  are  not  in  power,  where  methods  of 
defence  are  planned  if  we  belong  to  the  Cabinet.  No  more 
friends.  Confederates,  clients,  parasites,  rivals,  self-seekers — 
none  but  such.  Their  affection  is  not  asked  for,  but  their  vote 
is.  Who  says  "  Yes  "  is  a  friend  ;  who  says  "  No  "  is  a  traitor. 
The  privacy  of  the  home  disappears.  It  is  invaded  by  a  stream 
of  strange  people  who  sully  it,  who  turn  it  into  a  vestibule,  a 
courtyard,  a  street,  a  public  square.  Confidence  vanishes. 
Our  husband  is  worried  and  disturbed  ;  we  seek  to  know  the 
reason,  and  he  believes  we  cannot  understand,  for  politicians 
despise  the  advice  of  women.     At  table  the  husband  reads 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  221 

newspa^jers  or  answers  telegrams.  At  balls  he  finds  it  difficult 
to  escort  us,  yet  he  is  obliged  to  go,  so  as  to  represent  the 
Government,  in  order  to  meet  influential  deputies,  to  make  his 
bow  to  the  wives  of  the  party  leaders,  to  shake  hands  with  the 
insignificant  creatures  who  would  not  live  if  the  great  political 
passion  did  not.  It  is  either  a  case  of  melancholy  solitude  in 
the  country,  like  a  poor  abandoned  thing,  or  else  of  being 
mobbed  in  town,  without  a  breath  of  poetry,  without  a  smile 
of  the  ideal.  A  great  passion,  to  be  sure,  but  so  mad  and 
absorbing  and  confining  that  it  creates  fears  and  disgust !' 

Another  long  silence.  Don  Silvio  Vargas  was  speaking  in 
the  hall,  with  his  strident  voice,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his 
thin,  spare  body  swaying  slightly,  looking  at  an  interlocutor 
through  his  shining  eyeglass,  as  if  he  were  making  game  of 
him,  with  the  mocking  irony  that  irritated  his  opponents. 

'A  great  passion,  a  great  passion,'  murmured  Donna 
Angelica.     '  Women  understand  only  one.* 

'  Which  is  ?' 

'  Love.' 

'  That  is  true,'  answered  Sangiorgio. 

♦  »  ♦  *  * 

'We  dine  alone  to-day,'  said  Don  Silvio,  sitting  down  at 
table.  *  Donna  Angelica  is  in  her  room,  dressing  for  the  ball 
at  the  Quirinal.' 

The  secretary   sat  down  with  them   at  the   small  family 
dinner-table ;  the  fourth  seat — that  of  the  lady  of  the  house — ' 
remained  empty.     In  the  middle  of  the  table  stood  a  slender- 
necked  vase,  containing  red  lilies,  and  Sangiorgio's  eyes  con- 
tinually wandered  from   the  vacant  chair  to  the  great  red 


222  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

flowers.  The  two  deputies — the  Minister  and  the  important 
politician — eagerly  discussed  politics,  eating  all  the  while,  Don 
Silvio  slashing  his  meat  nervously  while  he  waxed  warm  over  the 
Communal  and  Provincial  Law,  Sangiorgio  listening,  answer- 
ing, stating  objections,  forgetting  to  dine.  But  his  thoughts 
were  in  a  little  room  panelled  with  light  wood,  and  cosily 
heated  by  a  crackling  grate  fire — for  thus  he  conceived  of 
Donna  Angelica's  retreat. 

The  secretary  only  bestowed  any  real  thought  on  dining, 
and  devoted  his  whole  gastronomical  energies  to  it.  But  he 
maintained  a  serious  face  ;  every  now  and  then  he  seconded  a 
remark  from  the  Minister  with  a  nod,  with  an  air  of  restrained 
admiration;  at  Sangiorgio's  sayings  he  would  often  knit  his 
brows,  as  if  a  difficulty  mentioned  were  apparent  to  him  also. 

Thus  the  dinner  went  by,  while  two  footmen  brought  in 
now  a  telegram,  now  letters,  now  a  newspaper,  or  a  new  dish. 
Don  Silvio  at  once  tore  open  the  despatches,  opened  and  read 
the  letters,  cut  the  cover  of  the  newspapers,  and  ran  his  eye 
down  the  columns ;  he  would  not  taste  the  food,  but  looked 
at  it  with  the  abstracted  gaze  of  a  wandering  mind. 

Beside  him  were  an  inkstand,  a  pen,  telegraph-blanks,  note- 
paper,  and  he  would  write  answers  then  and  there,  after  push- 
ing his  plate  away  from  him.  The  newspapers  he  handed  to 
his  secretary,  having  first  marked  certain  places  with  a  red 
pencil;  the  secretary  read  the  marked  passages  with  the 
placidity  of  an  old  diplomat.  In  the  meantime  Sangiorgio 
was  vainly  listening  for  some  feminine  sound,  vainly  keeping 
on  the  alert  for  the  least  incident :  not  a  maid  came  through, 
not  a  bell  rang ;  nothing  feminine  happened ;  not  a  flower 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  223 

was  wanted,  not  a  candlestick  was  brought ;  there  was  no 
bustle  of  servants  ;  nothing  occurred — nothing  whatever. 

In  the  privacy  of  her  apartment  Donna  Angelica  was  in  the 
throes  of  the  romantic  and  feverish  excitement  of  a  woman 
dressing  for  a  ball ;  and  the  great  mystery  of  beauty  adorning 
itself — amid  lustre-imparting,  perfumed  liquids,  loose  hair, 
scattered  flowers,  billowy  gauze,  sparkling  jewels,  smooth  silks, 
soft  furs — modern  woman's  great  mystery  of  Isis,  was  being 
accomplished  as  in  a  tabernacle. 

An  evermore  consuming  desire  to  know  or  hear  something 
assailed  Sangiorgio  in  the  dining-room  during  all  the  political 
discussion  and  writing  ;  a  desire  caused  by  the  vacant  place  at 
the  table  where  the  chair  stood ;  a  desire  springing  from  the 
red  lilies — the  fiery  St.  Louis  lilies — which  seemed  to  combine 
purity  and  the  heat  of  passion.  If  only  she  would  come  out 
for  a  moment,  to  greet  her  husband,  to  greet  her  guest !  If  she 
would  but  show  herself,  radiant  in  her  youth  and  beauty  ! 
Each  time  a  door  opened,  as  the  evening  wore  on,  Sangiorgio 
started,  shutting  his  eyes,  seeming  to  see  her  appear  in  the 
splendour  of  her  loveliness  and  her  dress.  But  other  tele- 
grams, messages,  and  letters  arrived;  in  one  instance  Don 
Silvio  drew  a  cipher-book  from  his  pocket  to  translate  a 
political  despatch.  Where  could  Donna  Angelica  be?  In 
what  floods  of  perfume  had  she  vanished  ? 

The  time  went  by,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  anything  in  the 
house  reminiscent  of  ballroom  gaiety ;  the  house  kept  its  busy 
atmosphere ;  the  slamming  of  doors  continued,  the  loud  or 
low  discussions,  the  coming  and  going  of  written  and  printed 
papers.     It  was  like  a  public  square,  a  stock  exchange,  a 


224  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

political  institution,  a  camping-ground  for  all  manner  of 
intrigue,  deceit,  and  turmoil.  Perhaps  in  the  sanctuary  within, 
which  harboured  Donna  Angelica's  youth  and  beauty,  there 
were  signs  of  the  female  excitement  that  precedes  a  ball,  and 
to  which  is  always  due  a  ravishing  confusion  of  scattered 
linen,  silk  stockings  hanging  out  of  open  drawers,  unstoppered 
vials,  corsets  straggling  over  the  floor.  But  of  such  feminine 
disarray,  of  such  intoxicating  disorder,  so  fascinating  to  a 
husband  or  a  lover,  no  indication  passed  outside  her  apart- 
ment. Through  the  three  or  four  doors  separating  him  from 
the  woman  he  loved  Francesco  Sangiorgio  felt  this  new  charm, 
which  was  quite  earthly,  and  which  captivated  him  in  a  new 
way,  addressing  itself  to  his  instincts  of  sex.  He  felt  the 
contrast  between  the  weariness,  the  emptiness  of  Don  Silvio's 
tumultuous  hfe,  and  the  poetical  delicacy  of  that  feminine 
toilet,  and  all  the  perturbation  of  heart  and  senses  instilled  by 
everything  that  comes  into  contact  with  a  woman's  body. 

At  last,  at  ten  o'clock,  doors  were  opened  and  shut,  and 
subdued  voices  heard ;  and  Sangiorgio,  choked  by  his  one 
wish,  shut  his  eyes  to  avoid  the  blinding  spectacle  of  Donna 
Angelica's  beauty.  But  no  one  appeared;  a  dull  rumble  of 
wheels  was  audible  in  the  courtyard,  and  then  in  the  Piazza 
deir  ApoUinare. 

'  Donna  Angelica  has  gone  to  the  Quirinal,'  said  Don  Silvio 
calmly,  opening  the  Riforma^  which  had  just  been  brought  in. 
'  Shall  you  not  be  going,  too,  Sangiorgio  ?' 

'Later  on,'  feebly  answered  Sangiorgio,  who  had  turned 
deadly  pale. 


The  conquest  of  rome  225 

In  the  white  electric  light  illuminating  the  grand  staircase  of 
the  Quirinal  the  women  were  slowly  making  their  way  upward, 
touching  the  carpet  only  with  the  toes  of  their  satin  slippers. 
And  with  sweeping  trains,  with  rich,  soft,  warm,  white  cloaks 
over  their  nude  shoulders,  with  heads  begemmed,  befeathered, 
or  beflowered,  in  their  ascent  they  cast  stray  glances  at  the  two 
great  green  shrubs,  at  the  Muses  among  the  broad,  red-veined 
leaves,  at  the  palms  that  stood  darkly  against  the  white  stucco 
of  the  walls.  The  women  went  up  slowly,  so  as  not  to  become 
ruffled,  and  in  order  that  the  even  pallor  or  the  florid  pink  of 
their  cheeks  might  not  be  disturbed.  After  all  their  nervous 
excitement,  the  calm  self-possession  of  women  determined  to 
look  handsome  asserted  itself.  It  was  enough  to  see  how 
composedly,  in  the  great,  chilly,  tapestried  place  transformed 
into  a  cloak-room,  they  untied  their  bows,  and  undid  their 
hoods  or  their  cloaks,  allowing  them  to  slip  gently  from  their 
shoulders,  maintaining  their  likeness  to  beautiful,  self-moving 
statues.  It  was  enough  to  see  the  phlegmatic  way  in  which 
they  smoothed  out  the  flexible  Swedish  gloves  over  their  arms, 
while  husband,  brother,  or  father  was  impatiently  waiting  to 
escort  an  unconcerned  charmer,  who  was  quietly  readjusting  a 
shoulder-sleeve  that  had  become  displaced. 

The  journey,  too,  through  the  other  two  rooms  and  a 
corridor  with  statues,  was  easy  and  silent ;  but  when  the  ladies 
reached  the  warmer  atmosphere  spread  around  by  the  stoves, 
and  began  feeling  gratified  at  their  nearness  to  the  scene  of 
pleasure,  their  lips  parted  in  elaborate  ballroom  smiles,  of  the 
sort  which  are  diff"used  over  the  whole  face,  over  the  whole 
person.     Near  the  door  of  the  ballroom,  the  Chamberlain, 

IS 


S26  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

oflFering  them  a  programme,  a  bunch  of  flowers,  and  his  arm 
to  take  them  in,  was  privileged  with  the  first  smile,  father, 
husband,  or  brother  being  abandoned  without  a  bow,  without 
a  word. 

There  was  a  vast  glitter  of  jewellery.  Upon  three  rows  of 
red  benches  sat  300  women,  jewels  in  their  hair,  on  their  ears, 
their  bare  necks,  bosoms,  and  arms.  From  some  headdresses 
more  unpretentious  than  the  rest  shone  forth  a  thin,  piercing 
ray,  but  when  some  of  the  stately  shoulders  moved,  or  an 
arm,  or  feathered  fan,  there  was  a  whole  torrent  of  sparks,  a 
brilliant  flash  of  lightning.  The  women  were  crowded  together, 
and  one  female  costume  counteracted  and  neutralized  anothen 
to  be  in  its  turn  counteracted  and  neutralized ;  neither  materials 
nor  colours  might  be  distinguished ;  only  a  glimpse  could  be 
obtained  of  a  bodice  or  a  bit  of  shoulder-sleeve  sometimes 
concealed  by  a  flower,  a  bow,  or  an  ornament.  And  what 
eclipsed  everything,  soft  billows  of  gauze,  sheen  of  satin, 
intricacy  of  lace,  heavy,  dark  hair,  light,  fair  locks,  the  almost 
living  skin  of  the  gloves,  the  pink  on  necks,  shoulders,  arms, 
was  the  jewellery  ;  more  luminous,  more  vivid  in  colour,  more 
iridescent  than  all,  were  the  triumphant  jewels. 

And  under  that  triple  splendour  of  scintillation,  what  was 
most  conspicuous,  most  admirable,  and  all-dominating,  was 
the  infinitely  varied  loveliness  of  the  unclad  arms  and  shoulders. 
Here  was  a  cold,  anaemic  white  resembling  glacial  marble, 
which  froze  the  glance  that  looked  upon  it ;  here  was  a  pearly 
skin,  polished  and  transparent,  whose  colour  no  shadow  could 
ever  change  ;  then  came  a  firm  white,  under  which  flowed  the 
rich  blood  as  red  cloth  appears  under  a  thin  white  fabric; 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  227 

elsewhere,  a  smooth,  even  surface,  indicative  of  a  moderate 
temperament  and  a  moderate  temperature,  which  nothing 
could  affect ;  elsewhere  again,  an  opaque  white,  here  and 
there  marbled  with  slabs  of  pink  ;  elsewhere  still,  a  complexion 
neither  dark  nor  fair,  but  cloudy,  as  though  the  blood  rolled 
over  a  bed  of  black  earth  ;  yet  again  elsewhere,  a  bright, 
handsome,  striking  complexion,  like  a  heavy,  thick  magnolia- 
leaf,  like  the  well-nourished  flesh  of  ripe  fruit. 

All  the  moulded  loveliness  emerged  from  the  bodices  as 
though  softly  escaping  from  bondage;  it  flowered  from  the 
shoulder-sleeves  and  the  billowing  gauze  as  out  of  a  calyx ;  in 
its  luxuriance  and  spontaneousness  it  was  like  the  richest  out- 
blossoming  of  anything  in  the  vegetable  kingdom.  Repeated 
in  all  tints  three-hundred-fold,  it  assumed  a  character  of  general, 
complete  loveliness,  like  that  of  a  great  forest ;  the  individual 
disappeared,  personality  was  absorbed. 

Nothing — it  might  be  supposed — could  have  more  en- 
raptured the  eye,  nothing  so  effectively  set  the  imagination 
rioting,  with  regard  to  individual  charms ;  but,  instead,  there 
was  sounded  the  grand  note  of  the  whole  of  woman's  beauty, 
which  the  senses  cannot  grasp,  but  the  spirit  grasps,  a  united 
chorus  blending  all  voices,  white,  pink  and  red,  into  a  single 
voice. 

In  vain  did  the  dense  black  and  white  rows  of  men,  under 
the  band,  behind  the  benches,  in  the  doorways,  strive  to 
recognise  a  certain  face  or  person,  the  person,  the  woman. 
They,  the  men,  were  able  to  see  nothing  but  a  great  blaze  of 
jewellery,  which  killed  everything  else;  they  merely  saw  the 
sex  as  a  single  woman  with  naked  arms  and  shoulders,  although 

15—2 


228  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

they  were  in  the  presence  of  three  hundred  low-necked  women 
together. 

But  a  sudden  silence  ensued  :  the  three  hundred  women 
were  struck  stark,  with  unblinking  eyes  glued  to  the  door  at 
the  back.  The  band  intoned  the  beginning  of  a  flourish,  clear, 
loud,  and  martial,  which  was  of  singular  effect  in  that  silence, 
that  essentially  feminine  display.  The  three  hundred  ladies 
rose  as  one,  with  a  rustle  of  dresses ;  and  then  they  stood 
waiting,  one  close  against  the  other,  all  smiles,  with  shoulders 
so  high  that  they  seemed  escaping  from  the  sleeves,  arms 
hanging  listlessly  down,  faces  beautifully  and  unalterably 
serene.  Behind  them,  under  the  band,  and  in  the  doorways, 
the  black  and  white  masses  of  men  swayed  silently  to  and  fro. 
The  moment  of  anticipation  seemed  interminable.  Then  in 
the  door  at  the  back  appeared  something  effulgent,  a  multiplied 
and  concentrated  effulgence,  like  the  vision  of  a  comet ;  and 
as  the  exalted,  irradiant  apparition  made  a  bow  of  supremest 
grace,  the  glittering  hedge  of  jewels,  the  close  array  of  gems, 
the  starry  pageant,  bowed  low.  To  the  eternally  feminine  in 
one  was  reverence  paid  by  the  eternally  feminine  in  number. 
The  men  looked  on  in  agitation. 

Standing  on  the  tips  of  his  toes,  Francesco  Sangiorgio  was 
attempting  to  discover  the  sweetest  of  women.  He  was  with 
a  group  of  deputies.  The  Honourable  Galvagna,  a  Colonel 
from  the  Irredentist  part  of  the  country,  and  the  Honourable 
Sangarzia,  were  patiently  waiting  to  reach  the  ladies.  The 
Honourable  San  Demetrio  was  about  to  dispense  gallantry  in 
the  diplomatic  circle  ;  but  Sangiorgio  was  seeking  out  Angelica. 

All  those  women,  standing  in  a  row,  with  nosegay  in  hand, 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  229 

smiling  as  they  watched  the  royal  quadrille,  confused  San- 
giorgio  ;  he  could  distinguish  none  of  their  features,  recognised 
not  one  of  them.  Never  had  he  seen  so  many  women  in  a 
body,  so  closely  ranged  together,  in  all  the  splendours  of 
beauty  and  dress,  in  all  the  potency  of  their  sex.  Every  now 
and  then  he  shut  his  dazzled  eyes  ;  reopening  them,  he  again 
attempted  to  seek  out  the  most  beautiful  of  them  all,  her  who, 
to  him,  was  the  only  woman. 

Of  a  sudden,  while  Her  Majesty  was  gracefully  dancing 
round  the  gray-headed,  urbane  German  Ambassador,  her  long, 
regal,  flame-coloured  train  flashing  like  the  tail  of  a  comet,  and 
the  royal  diadem  astrally  akindle,  Sangiorgio  caught  sight  of 
Donna  Angelica  Vargas  on  the  arm  of  a  bronzed  old  gentle- 
man with  dyed  moustache  and  bristles  on  his  head  that  were 
a  shade  of  black  tending  to  red.  Donna  Angelica  was  figuring 
in  the  royal  quadrille,  opposite  the  very  fair,  very  pale  Hamlet- 
faced  lady  who  was  the  Swedish  Envoy's  wife. 

Donna  Angelica  crossed  the  floor  with  the  harmonious, 
almost  musical  glide  that  rendered  her  step  one  of  her  most 
potent  charms ;  her  white,  brocaded  train  undulated  gently 
behind  her,  as  though  it  were  aflow,  and  in  it  glittered  streaks 
of  silver  worked  into  the  brocade. 

Now  and  then,  as  the  stately  slow  promenade,  which  con- 
stituted the  royal  quadrille,  might  permit,  he  saw  Donna 
Angelica's  nimble,  youthful  figure,  and  the  white  brocade 
bodice,  modestly  cut  and  topped  with  a  hazy  fluff  of  white 
gauze ;  on  her  white  throat  a  necklace  of  pearls  lay  against  a 
pearly  skin,  and  a  diamond  cross  hung  luminous  upon  her 
breast. 


230  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

Donna  Angelica,  her  chestnut-brown  hair  closely  coiled 
round  her  head,  was  crowned  with  stars — brilliant  stars  of 
diamonds,  studding  the  darkness  of  her  locks,  four  in  front, 
four  at  the  back,  set  irregularly  and  without  design,  as  stars 
actually  appear  in  the  obscurity  of  night  on  the  dark,  deep  blue 
of  the  firmament  of  heaven. 

And  the  penetrating  eye  of  her  lover  clearly  distinguished 
on  the  gauze  about  the  throat  a  tiny  spray  of  lilies  of  the 
valley,  without  leaves,  a  scarce  visible  little  spray  of  lilies  of  the 
valley,  put  there  for  the  poetry  and  perfume  of  a  flower's  sake, 
put  there  for  discovery  by  the  eye  of  him  who  knew  how 
to  love. 

And  amid  such  wealth  of  beauty,  here  mild  and  simple, 
there  provokingly  alluring,  amid  such  an  exuberance  of  beauty 
and  seductions,  Donna  Angelica  was  beauty  undefiled  and 
pensive ;  beauty  was  in  her  melancholy,  frank  expression,  in 
the  peace  of  a  soul  that  had  won  its  battle.  She  was  the 
picture  of  purity.  Her  dress  was  a  rich,  dull  white  of  plain 
and  unpretentious  pattern.  Between  the  seams  ran  silver 
threads  here  and  there,  like  gentle  thoughts,  varying  the  same- 
ness of  such  simplicity.  The  noble  folds  of  her  train  had  a 
classical  aspect,  such  as  the  drapery  of  a  chaste,  antique  statue. 
Her  bodice  was  of  exactly  the  right  cut,  in  nothing  diminishing 
the  attractions  of  the  woman,  and  being  entirely  to  the  credit 
of  the  modesty  of  the  lady.  About  the  shoulders  the  dress 
was  heavy  enough  to  conceal  the  enticing,  almost  sensual  place 
where  a  woman's  shoulder  becomes  her  arm.  She  wore  the 
lightest  of  cream-coloured  gloves  of  the  finest  kind,  which, 
covering  her  elbow  and  three  inches  besides,  lay  moulded  to 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  231 

her  arm  without  a  wrinkle.  She  wore  no  bracelets,  but  had  on 
plain  diamond  earrings.  The  whole  impression  was  one  of 
chastity.  There  was  none  of  the  vacant  stupidity  of  a  cross- 
grained  girl,  but  all  the  innocence  of  thought  and  emotion  of 
a  pure  woman.  To  Francesco  Sangiorgio  it  seemed  as  if  he 
were  in  the  presence  of  purity  personified.  Her  eyes  shed  a 
soft  light,  her  eyelids  moved  slowly,  dispassionately,  without  a 
shadow  under  them  of  sleeplessness  or  illness  ;  she  looked 
placidly  at  the  persons  and  objects  surrounding  her ;  her 
temples  were  as  clear  as  a  child's,  and  the  skin  as  transparent 
as  the  skin  round  an  egg ;  seen  in  profile  her  face  showed  a 
delicate  pink  at  the  nostril ;  her  sinuous  red  mouth  was  shut 
lightly,  like  the  bud  of  a  flower.  And  the  whole  expression  of 
her  peaceful  countenance  was  that  of  a  person  cherishing 
neither  hopes  nor  desires.  An  aureole  of  something  more 
than  human,  of  something  entirely  spiritual,  seemed  to  trans- 
figure her  loveliness. 

At  the  sight  of  her,  Francesco  Sangiorgio  felt  the  excruciat- 
ing desire  yield  which  had  possessed  him  in  the  dining-room, 
where  he  had  been  on  the  rack  of  expectation  concerning 
Angelica,  who  had  left  the  house  without  showing  herself. 
Little  by  little  his  nerves  were  quieted,  his  prickling  senses 
went  into  a  state  of  languid  contemplation.  That  chastity  and 
purity  descended  upon  Sangiorgio  like  a  refreshing  breath, 
cooling  the  ardour  of  passion;  affecting  him  like  the  bene- 
ficence of  an  innocent  caress  from  the  lips  of  a  child,  the 
hand  of  a  sister,  or  a  friend's  embrace ;  invading  him  like  a 
placid  river,  gently  and  silently  overflowing  its  banks.  His 
dehrious  pulse  had  abated ;  the  veins  in  his  temples  throbbed 


232  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

less  violently  than  before;  his  wrongful  desires  of  lust  had 
melted  away.  And  while  Donna  Angelica  was  standing  at 
rest  in  the  quadrille,  he  felt  her  eyes  upon  him  in  an  open, 
frank  gaze,  the  which  was  a  clear,  steady  light  dimmed  with 
tenderness.  In  truth,  she  was  to  him  in  that  hour,  and  for 
ever,  the  divine  Beatrice. 

Sitting  in  the  large,  royal  armchair,  the  Queen  bent  over 
a  little  while  talking  with  Donna  Clara  Tasca,  who  was  beside 
her  on  a  stool,  which  was  her  place  as  the  wife  of  a  Knight  of 
the  Annunciation.  The  ardent  Sicilian,  with  bright,  clever 
eyes,  slightly  grizzled  hair,  and  mobile  features,  betraying  a 
thoroughly  restless  mind,  was  answering  the  Queen  with  great 
rapidity,  bending  forward  also,  and  showing  respectful  atten- 
tion. The  other  ladies — of  the  aristocracy,  of  diplomacy, 
and  of  the  political  world — collected  in  groups,  were  conversing 
with  one  another  and  pretending  to  be  interested,  but  kept 
every  motion  of  the  Queen  assiduously  in  eye.  And  as  yet 
they  would  not  dance,  refusing  offers  to  do  so,  wrapt  and 
engrossed  as  they  were  in  the  recollection  of  the  words  spoken 
to  them  by  the  Queen.  Every  woman  in  the  place,  whatever 
her  wealth,  rank,  or  beauty,  whatever  her  charms  of  mind  or 
body,  coveted  nothing  beyond  that  moment's  colloquy  with 
the  Queen,  in  the  presence  of  two  thousand  people ;  they  all 
forgot  every  other  hope,  wish,  interest,  or  sentiment  in  the 
feminine  ambition  for  that  minute  of  conversation  in  public. 
The  girls  only,  to  whom  this  honour  would  not  fall,  who  had 
come  to  exhibit  their  young  fascinations,  to  be  gay,  to  dance, 
to  drown  an  innocent,  romantic,  amorous  fancy — the  girls, 
instead,  were  already  dancing  a  waltz  round  a  large  circle  in 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  233 

the  room,  amid  a  fluttering  of  white,  pink,  and  blue  muslin, 
and  shyly  kept  at  a  distance  from  the  royal  chair.  The  men 
walked  about,  stood  in  groups,  danced,  chatted — no  one  paid 
any  heed  to  them.  After  the  royal  quadrille,  Francesco  San- 
giorgio  had  squeezed  through  the  serried  files  of  spectators, 
and  had  arrived  within  twenty  feet  of  her  when  she  was  talking 
with  the  deputy,  Count  di  Carimate,  the  Lombard  nobleman, 
with  a  black  beard  and  vague,  Socialistic  principles.  But  she. 
Donna  Angelica,  was  somewhat  absent-minded  ;  her  eyes  were 
cast  down,  and  occasionally  they  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
royal  personage. 

And  whenever  that  star  revolved  to  right  or  left,  whenever 
she  gave  the  signal  for  rising,  a  prolonged  thrill  ran  through 
the  groups  of  women ;  they  all  turned  their  heads  in  the 
direction  indicated,  many  continuing  to  chatter  or  to  listen  ; 
but  they  stammered  when  they  spoke,  for  their  thoughts  were 
elsewhere.  The  Queen  had  gone  over  to  her  Ladies-in-Waiting, 
and  sat  down  in  their  midst,  while  they  surrounded  her  stand- 
ing. They  comprised  two  Americans  married  to  Roman 
Princes,  one  of  them  remarkably  fair,  and  more  English  than 
American,  the  other  slender,  affable,  and  well  dressed ;  Donna 
Vittoria  Colonna,  with  black,  diamond  eyes ;  Donna  Lavinia 
di  Sora,  with  pearl-coloured  face  and  pensive,  leonine  eyes ; 
Countess  Genzano,  whose  charms  were  artificial  and  whose 
hair  was  yellow  ;  Princess  Seraphita,  of  classically  ideal  features, 
robed  in  plain  white,  with  a  bunch  of  violets  at  her  bosom ; 
Princess  Lalla,  whose  regular,  cameo-lined  face  was  still 
youthful,  and  whose  shoulders  were  white  and  arched ;  and 
finally  the  Marchioness  of  Paola,  the  head  Lady-in  Waiting,  a 


234  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

happy  mother  with  hair  yet  fair  and  wavy,  whose  sprightly 
daughters,  both  brunettes,  were  dancing  in  the  ballroom. 

The  women  of  the  corps  diplomatique  were  patiently 
smoothing  their  gloves  on  their  arms,  opening  and  closing 
their  large,  soft,  feather  fans,  each  for  the  hundredth  time 
eagerly  scanning  her  programme,  as  if  she  had  never  seen  it 
before. 

By  degrees  Sangiorgio  had  reached  Donna  Angelica's  side, 
where,  after  arriving,  he  whispered  '  Good-evening.' 

'  Good-evening,'  she  murmured,  with  that  depth  of  expres- 
sion quite  individual  to  herself.  And  she  turned  to  him, 
asking  him  whether  her  husband  had  come,  talking  with  half- 
closed  lips,  while  he  cast  such  enamoured  and  admiring  glances 
at  her  that  a  slight  blush  tinged  her  cheeks.  The  Queen  was 
speaking  in  French  to  the  French  Ambassadress,  a  spare, 
ascetic  woman  with  a  long  face ;  yonder  the  King  was  con- 
versing with  Donna  Luigia  Catalani,  attired  in  bronze,  a  strange 
blue  feather  in  her  blonde  locks ;  the  vivacious,  witty  Sicilian 
was  smiling  maliciously.     A  new  quadrille  was  beginning. 

'  You  are  not  dancing,'  observed  Sangiorgio. 

*  No,  I  am  not ;  the  Government  does  not  dance  this  time,' 
she  replied  calmly.     *  Later  on,  if  you  like,  we  will  take  a  turn.' 

'  Later  on  ?' 

*  Yes,  later  on.' 

He  did  not  understand  at  first.  He  had  been  too  un- 
observant, his  thoughts  all  centred  on  her  he  loved ;  he  had 
been  unwitting  of  the  scene  of  feverish  female  ambition  all 
round  him.  Yet  he  saw  that  something  of  supreme  importance 
was  happening  in  this  essentially  feminine  festive  affair;   he 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  235 

saw  that  these  women  were  completely  given  over  to  some 
idea  which  made  them  forget  even  their  wish  to  look  beautiful. 
The  ballroom  was  now  alive  with  dancers,  and  the  rest  of  the 
men  were  moving  towards  the  sitting,  smoking,  and  refresh- 
ment rooms. 

On  the  right  side  of  the  ballroom  the  throng  of  expectant 
women  was  still  increasing ;  they  were  crowded  together  closer 
than  ever,  and,  while  they  still  hoped  their  turn  was  coming, 
had  no  inclination  to  dance,  since  their  hearts  and  minds 
were  over  in  that  corner  of  the  room. 

The  Queen,  sitting  in  the  recess  of  a  balcony,  with  only  her 
train  and  the  lock  of  her  necklace  showing,  was  conversing 
with  Donna  Lidia,  the  Prime  Minister's  wife,  a  hearty,  amiable 
little  woman,  who  only  left  her  quiet  family  home  on  the 
occasion  of  official  routs. 

'That  is  Donna  Lidia — the  Queen  is  talking  to  Donna 
Lidia !'  the  women  and  those  of  the  girls  who  were  well 
informed  were  whispering  to  each  other.  The  interview  had 
thus  far  lasted  five  minutes ;  the  eyes  of  all  the  waiting  ladies 
were,  by  an  irresistible,  magnetic  force,  drawn  upon  Donna 
Lidia  and  her  Queen,  whose  movements  were  subject  to 
general  speculation  :  would  she  go  to  the  right  or  the  left  when 
she  got  up  to  leave  the  alcove  ?  In  the  ballroom  the  couples 
who  had  taken  part  in  the  quadrille  were  now  promenading ; 
engagements  were  being  made  for  the  polka ;  the  young  men 
were  writing  with  pencils  on  the  girls'  programmes  ;  the  ladies 
who  were  strangers,  or  elderly,  middle-aged,  or  old,  sat  on  the 
last  row  of  the  red  velvet  benches  with  the  formal  air  of  people 
voluntarily  bored,  and  were  laden  with  jewels  and  splendid 


236  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

laces,  and  wore  feathers  in  their  hair.  The  women  who  had 
been  honoured  by  a  few  words  from  royalty  went  about  flushed 
and  smiling  and  satisfied,  with  a  happy  light  in  their  eyes, 
repeating  to  one  another  the  gracious  remarks  that  had  been 
made  to  them ;  and  they  cared  nothing  for  anything  else,  paid 
no  heed  to  others  who  were  still  waiting  with  ill-concealed 
impatience.  The  King  was  talking  to  the  large,  handsome 
wife  of  Italy's  prime  patriot,  a  worthy  lady,  with  dark  skin  and 
honest  eyes,  dressed  all  in  blue. 

'I  had  hoped  to  see  you  before,  this  evening,'  said  San- 
giorgio,  like  a  very  schoolboy. 

*  Ah,  indeed,'  she  vaguely  replied. 

At  that  she  turned  her  back  upon  him.  A  path  had  sud- 
denly opened  through  the  crowd,  and  between  two  rows  of 
people  the  Queen  was  advancing,  majestically  and  gracefully 
beautiful,  in  a  tremulous,  starry  radiance.  She  was  coming 
towards  Donna  Angelica,  and  Sangiorgio  stepped  back, 
abashed,  recognising  in  that  female  couple — the  simple,  serene 
woman  and  the  royal,  smiling  woman — the  whole  potency  of 
the  sex. 

Later  on  Francesco  Sangiorgio  and  Donna  Angelica  were 
walking  through  the  rooms  together  at  a  leisurely  pace,  wend- 
ing their  way  through  the  maze  of  trains  which  formed  little 
lanes  on  the  floor,  occasionally  coming  to  a  standstill  when 
the  flood  of  femininity  barred  their  passage.  In  the  great 
ballroom,  the  girls,  the  secretaries'  wives,  the  ladies  in  love 
with  balls,  the  women  of  the  middle  class,  and  all  those  who 
had  no  official  position,  gave  themselves  up  entirely  to  the 
pleasures  of  dancing;  the  orchestra  was  playing  lively  tunes 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  237 

by  Metra  and  Fahrbach  ;  the  animation  of  the  affair  was  at 
its  height.  Others  were  meanwhile  promenading,  sitting  on 
lounges  in  the  parlours,  holding  receptions,  and  circulating 
everywhere.  The  British  Ambassadress,  with  her  beautiful 
and  poetic  daughter  by  her  side,  who  resembled  a  Botticelli 
Madonna,  was  holding  court  in  the  blue-room  to  a  circle  of 
young  diplomats.  For  two  minutes  these  ladies  spoke  English 
with  Donna  Angelica;  Sangiorgio  listened  without  under- 
standing, but  what  he  heard  sounded  like  delicious  music  to 
him. 

The  Countess  di  Malgra,  the  sympathetic  blonde  of  in- 
teresting pallor  and  bewitching  eyes,  was  dispensing  social 
paradoxes  to  three  or  four  young  Centrist  deputies  following 
in  her  train ;  Signorina  Maria  Gaston,  a  girl  of  gentle  loveli- 
ness, the  daughter  of  the  Minister  of  Marine,  a  mundanely 
agreeable  little  angel,  was  not  dancing,  but  was  chatting  at  a 
window  with  three  or  four  old  Admirals ;  Signora  Giulia 
Greuze,  the  Belgian  with  a  sparkling  wit  and  a  beautiful  young 
body,  like  a  rose  bursting  from  its  bud,  was  laughing  under 
a  hanging  basket  of  ivy,  showing  her  frank  teeth. 

Donna  Angelica,  on  Sangiorgio's  arm,  went  on,  stopping  a 
moment  here  and  there,  exchanging  bows  and  smiles  with  the 
deputies'  wives  she  met.  The  little  Marchioness  di  Santa 
Marta,  fair  and  fluffy,  like  a  young  bird,  faithful  to  her  taste 
for  dark-red  dresses,  showing  the  prettiest  little  feet  in  the 
Italian  political  world  ;  the  Baroness  Romito,  a  gorgeous, 
sedate  Juno ;  the  Countess  di  Trecastagne,  a  pale  French- 
woman, married  to  a  Sicilian ;  the  Baroness  di  Sparanise,  the 
clever  lady  whose  eyes  were  black  as   Egyptian  night;  the 


238  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

mild  and  affable  Marchioness  di  Costanza,  with  her  caressing 
voice  and  gentle  footsteps ;  the  two  fair-haired  daughters  of 
the  Minister  of  Grace  and  Justice,  one  blonde  and  slender, 
the  other  blonde  and  pensive — all  these  were  walking  about, 
without  returning  to  the  ballroom,  occasionally  gathering  in 
groups,  laughing  together,  telling  little  stories  of  the  evening, 
looking  one  another  all  over  with  kind  though  searching 
smiles,  correctly  appraising  one  another's  magnificence  and 
beauty. 

Donna  Clara  Tasca  had  stayed  half  an  hour,  had  chatted 
with  some  Ministers,  politicians,  and  deputies,  and  had  left 
abruptly,  following  Don  Mario,  whose  political  fortune  she 
would  certainly  have  made  if  he  had  been  less  nebulous, 
fantastic,  and  virtuous  in  his  politics. 

Donna  Angelica,  on  Sangiorgio's  arm,  spoke  little,  but  he 
asked  for  nothing  more,  happy  at  feeling  that  modestly-gloved 
arm  on  his  coat-sleeve,  happy  at  being  able  to  count  the  pearls 
in  her  necklace,  happy  in  the  sensation  of  his  foot  being 
grazed  by  the  hem  of  her  brocaded  dress.  She  cast  about  for 
her  husband,  though  very  dispassionately,  without  urgency, 
and  without  making  inquiries  of  anyone,  exchanging  but  a 
few  occasional  phrases  with  her  escort.  At  length  Don  Silvio, 
arm-in-arm  with  a  deputy  of  the  Opposition,  appeared  in  a  door- 
way, came  up  to  her,  and,  scarcely  looking  at  her,  scarcely 
noticing  in  whose  company  she  was,  asked  her  curtly  in  an 
undertone : 

'  Her  Majesty  ?' 

'  Most  amiable,'  she  answered,  casting  her  eyes  down. 

*  More  so  than  usual  ?' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  239 


'  I  do  not  know — I  think- 


'  Well,    do   you   think,    or   are   you   sure  ?'  he  interrupted 
severely. 

*  I  am  sure — quite  sure,'  she  hastened  to  say. 

He  turned  his  back  upon  her ;  she  was  pale  and  agitated. 

•Would  you  like  to  sit  down,  perhaps?'  asked  Sangiorgio 
reverently. 

'  No,  no,'  she  said ;  '  let  us  walk — let  us  walk.' 

They  went  into  a  refreshment-room  full  of  people  nibbling 
or  nipping  at  sweetmeats,  ices,  coffee,  or  tea,  where  the  floor 
was  strewn  with  little  bags  of  sweets.  Here,  too,  women 
abounded.  Princess  Valmy  was  sipping  tea  and  arguing  with 
a  little  man  who  was  a  renowned  translator  of  Plato,  a  Parlia- 
mentary athlete,  a  Southerner  of  deep  intellect,  rather  strident 
voice,  and  incisive,  oft  cutting,  language.  The  Countess  di 
Roccamorice  was  eating  sugared  chestnuts  as  she  chatted 
with  the  Grand  Master  of  the  Order  of  St.  Maurice,  with  his 
white  beard  and  discreet  Lombard  smile.  The  Princess  di 
Rocco,  the  handsomest  woman  in  Rome,  was  reclining  in  an 
easy-chair,  with  the  Honourable  Melillo,  the  Honourable 
Marchetti,  and  the  Honourable  Sangarzia  in  attendance ;  she 
was  consuming  an  ice,  benevolent  and  placid  as  a  goddess. 
The  Baroness  Noir,  tiny  and  frail,  in  a  dress  of  Japanese  blue, 
with  gorgeous  jewels — large  turquoises  set  in  diamonds — was 
slapping  her  fingers  with  her  fan,  nervously  listening  to  an 
argument  between  the  Italian  Minister  at  Brussels  and  the 
Italian  Minister  at  Bucharest. 

'  I  want  nothing — I  want  nothing,'  she  murmured  to  San- 
giorgio, who  was  conducting  her  towards  the  well-laden  table. 


240  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

She  was  trying  to  overcome  her  agitation  by  degrees.  She 
spoke  for  a  moment  with  Signora  Gasperini,  the  Secretary- 
General's  wife,  thus  trying  to  recover  her  calm ;  but  she  was 
no  more  than  half  successful.  Deep  down  in  her  soul  she  was 
still  perturbed. 

'  Would  you  like  to  leave  ?'  Sangiorgio  asked  her. 

'  Oh  yes  !'  she  exclaimed  impulsively. 

They  resumed  their  search  for  Don  Silvio,  traversed  the 
red  room,  the  blue  room,  the  ballroom,  and  the  corridor 
with  the  statues,  where  the  cold  made  her  naked  shoulders 
shiver,  and  then  passed  through  three  or  four  empty  apart- 
ments, arriving  in  the  banqueting  chamber,  where  folks  were 
merrily  chattering  and  glasses  were  clinking.  They  turned 
back,  and  finally,  in  the  Don  Quixote  tapestry  room,  found 
Don  Silvio  in  spirited  debate  with  the  British  Ambassador. 
Donna  Angelica  was  about  to  accost  him,  when,  by  a  wink, 
her  husband  forbade  her  to  do  so,  giving  her  to  understand 
that  she  was  to  move  on.  Blushing,  she  inclined  her  head, 
and  took  Sangiorgio  quickly  away. 

'  Do  you  not  dance  ?'  she  laughingly  asked  him.  '  You  are 
too  serious !  What  is  it  you  are  so  deep  in  thought  about  ? 
Politics,  I  hope !' 

'  Oh  no  !' 

'  Well,  on  no  account  think  of  politics,  I  beg  you  !'  she 
said,  leaning  more  emphatically  on  his  arm.  '  You  are  not  in 
love,  are  you,  by  any  chance  ?' 

*  Yes,'  he  briefly  replied. 

She  stopped,  put  out  of  countenance,  regretting  she  had 
said  too  much.     And  then  she  immediately  turned  to  other 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  241 

subjects — the  ball,  the  tapestries,  Don  Quixote,  the  heat  of  the 
rooms,  and  all  manner  of  things,  speaking  in  a  voice  that  was 
somewhat  veiled. 

By  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  ball  was  at  its  height ;  in 
the  ballroom  some  forty  couples  were  waltzing,  and  in  all  the 
apartments,  among  hangings,  flower-pots,  embroidered  curtains, 
white  stucco,  and  gilt  decorations,  there  was  an  abounding, 
a  teeming,  an  overflowing  of  women,  a  glitter  of  starred  head- 
dresses, a  heaving  of  lustrous  female  bosoms. 

Just  then  Vargas'  secretary  came  up  to  her  with  his  officious 
demeanour. 

'  His  Excellency  is  obliged  to  go  to  his  office  at  once 
because  of  an  important  telegram.  He  will  not  be  able  to 
take  you  home.' 

And  deferentially  he  stood  waiting,  but  as  if  conscious  of 
being  dispensable,  to  be  asked  to  take  her  home. 

'  Very  well,'  she  replied,  dismissing  him  with  a  glance. 

Sangiorgio  silently  accompanied  her  to  the  waiting-room, 
where,  under  the  white  electric  light,  and  in  the  presence  of 
the  stolid,  almost  automatic  footmen,  he  assisted  her  in  putting 
on  her  heavy,  ermine-lined,  white  brocade  cloak.  Without 
explanations,  without  a  word  passing  between  them,  she  took 
his  arm  again,  and  calmly  descended  the  staircase,  the  Vargas 
groom  having  preceded  them  to  call  the  carriage.  Arrived  at 
the  open  door  of  the  brougham,  with  a  gentle,  rapid  motion 
she  gathered  up  her  train,  and  stepped  into  the  carriage ;  she 
did  not  bow  to  Francesco,  did  not  offer  him  her  hand,  and  he 
stepped  into  the  carriage  after  her — quite  naturally. 

Not  a  word  was   spoken ;    but  her  white  train   covered 

16 


242  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

Francesco  Sangiorgio's  feet  and  legs  and  the  bottom  of  the 
small  carriage  with  its  rich  folds  ;  in  that  small  space,  a  faint 
odour  of  lilies  of  the  valley  was  noticeable. 

She  had  nothing  over  her  hair,  neither  shawl  nor  hood  nor 
lace  wrapper  ;  her  bare  head  emerged  freely  from  the  white  of 
the  ermine,  and  in  her  dark  locks  sparkled  the  diamond  stars. 
From  the  ample  sleeves  of  the  cloak  her  hands  fell  on  her 
knees,  one  hand  still  in  its  light  glove  of  Swedish  kid ;  the 
other  was  gloveless,  with  a  scintillant  diamond  ring  on  the 
third  finger.  In  the  semi-darkness  of  the  carriage,  which  was 
making  for  old  Rome  from  the  Quirinal  hill  at  a  slow  trot, 
Francesco  Sangiorgio  dwelt  now  on  that  sweet  face,  whose 
continued  pallor  rendered  it  more  fascinating  than  ever,  and 
now  on  that  little  hand,  lying  as  listlessly  in  her  lap  as  if  she 
were  overcome  with  mortal  fatigue.  In  the  long-awaited 
rapture  of  that  moment,  in  the  strange  seclusion  of  the  dark 
little  blue  nest,  conveying  the  sweetest  of  her  sex  homeward, 
her  lover  was  seized  with  not  a  single  desire,  with  no  care  for 
the  time  which  was  speeding  and  bringing  separation  nearer. 
That  supreme  spiritual  pleasure  he  was  drinking  in,  that  great 
happiness  was  quite  without  alloy. 

Motionless  and  mute  he  sat,  with  his  eyes  enchained,  as  it 
were  by  a  spell,  seeing  nothing  but  that  white  face,  and  that 
small,  soft  white  hand,  which  seemed  asleep ;  he  neither 
stirred  nor  spoke,  a  Buddhist  of  love,  since  there  was  naught 
to  hinder  the  loftiest  feelings. 

Never  had  he  known  his  life  to  unfold  and  run  its  course  so 
smoothly,  like  a  broad,  smiling  river,  flowing  down  to  the  sea 
through  a  beautiful  green  plain  in  the  sunlight,  barely  rippling 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  243 

under  the  willows.  Never  had  he  felt  himself  thus  enthralled 
by  pure  bliss,  in  which  soul  and  senses  were  alike  assuaged, 
to  the  delight  of  heart  and  emotion.  He  quaffed  deeply  and 
exhaustively  that  cup  of  joy  in  the  quiescence  and  passivity  of 
complete  happiness. 

Donna  Angelica  from  time  to  time  gave  him  a  lingering 
look.  Nestling  in  her  corner,  but  neither  curled  nor  huddled 
up,  with  that  beauty  of  shape  and  pose  peculiar  to  her,  her 
attitude  was  one  of  rest ;  it  was  not  too  loose  and  not  too 
stiff.  She  was  not  asleep — oh  no ;  her  large,  dark  eyes  were 
wide  open,  and  every  now  and  then  fell  quietly  on  him  who 
loved  her.  But  all  the  lines  of  her  face  had  seemingly  become 
softened  and  rounded  in  that  state  of  repose. 

Like  children,  like  some  women  whose  features  relax  and 
grow  young  again  in  sleep,  whose  faces  tiien  seem  innocent 
and  artless  once  more,  so,  in  that  unruffled  moment,  she 
looked  like  a  little  girl,  like  an  ingenuous  young  creature  still 
growing  up.  She  no  longer  appeared  as  a  woman  bedizened 
in  ballroom  finery ;  her  cloak  might  have  been  a  schoolgirl's 
frock,  plain  and  unpretentious,  shapeless  and  chaste,  a  maiden's 
mantle ;  and  the  gleam  of  the  diamonds  in  her  dark  hair  and 
on  her  little  hand  was  like  a  ray  of  light,  not  the  fulgurant 
opulence  of  jewellery.  She  was  a  young  girl  once  more,  in 
the  pure,  spiritual  essence  of  beauty  and  grace,  in  a  state  of 
repose  that  was  also  a  new  birth.  No  flame  lit  up  those  lovely 
eyes,  so  full  of  peace,  chiselled  like  a  statue's.  She,  too,  was 
very  tranquil ;  her  small  hand  was  as  wax  against  the  white  of 
her  gown ;  her  face  was  outlined  like  a  luminous  oval  against 
the  dark  background  of  the  carriage,  and  what  she  thought 

16 — 2 


244  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

or  felt  was  unrevealed.  Beneath  that  external  composure, 
beneath  the  repose  of  those  lines,  perhaps  thought  was  astir, 
perhaps  a  heart  was  beating  strongly,  perhaps  a  great  inner, 
intellectual  and  emotional  life  was  going  through  all  the  stages 
of  activity.  Yet,  perhaps,  this  calm  and  peace  had  reached 
her  very  spirit ;  perhaps  within  her  she  likened  the  depths  of  a 
fathomless,  steely  lake,  which  no  tempest  could  ever  disturb. 
Nothing  was  certain,  however.  She  was,  as  always,  enwrapped 
in  the  great  mystery  of  her  own  serenity. 

Between  them  both,  between  the  happy  mortal  who  was 
suffering  himself  to  be  engulfed  in  the  whelming  flood  of 
spiritual  bliss  that  stole  over  him,  and  the  young,  chaste, 
placid,  and  serene  being,  sat  a  third — Love. 


CHAPTER  III 

Scarcely  had  Francesco  Sangiorgio  emerged  from  the  Via 
Babuino  into  the  Piazza  del  Popolo  than  a  handful  of  coriander 
seeds  went  down  his  neck,  although  he  could  not  tell  whence 
they  came ;  a  loose  bunch  of  chicory-flowers  then  grazed  his 
cheek,  and  in  the  rush  of  people  he  was  borne  away  towards 
the  obelisk.  A  black,  noisy,  shouting,  whistling  mob  was 
surging  round  the  fountain  under  a  white  shower  of  coriander 
seeds  thrown  by  pedestrians,  from  carriages,  and  from  the  two 
great  wooden  stands  which,  as  it  were,  formed  a  prolongation 
of  the  Corso  to  the  fountain. 

This  dark  crowd,  with  its  excited  faces,  was  shone  upon  by 
the  afternoon  sunlight,  which  covered  the  square  with  a  cheerful 
spring  cape,  and  in  the  tepid  air,  in  the  mild  February  sirocco, 
the  grains  of  pulverized  coriander  inflamed  the  throat  and  drew 
blood  to  the  cheeks.  Sangiorgio  was  obliged  to  use  elbows  and 
shoulders  in  pushing  his  way  through  the  howling  mob,  which 
jerked  and  jostled  him  ;  he  was  seized  with  wrath  against  an 
amusement  so  brutal  as  to  outdo  the  ferocity  of  animals  at  play. 

The  crowd  reached  to  the  Pincio  gates,  obstructing  them, 
barring  them,  clinging  to  the  open  railings,  turning  their  backs 
upon  both  the  avenues ;  but  no  one  went  in,  no  one  thought 
of  going  up  to  the  Pincio,  all  being  impressed  by  the  extra- 
ordinary spectacle  which  is  always  afibrded  by  an  unbridled 


246  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

human  mob.  Sangiorgio  made  his  way  energetically  against 
the  tide,  putting  a  mighty  restraint  on  himself  not  to  distribute 
fisticuffs  among  those  who  hustled  him.  But  the  great  diffi- 
culty for  him  was  to  get  into  the  Pincio ;  the  people  who 
blocked  the  entrance  would  not  let  him  pass — were  afraid  of 
losing  their  places,  suspecting  him  of  wanting  to  steal  one, 
believing  he  wished  to  establish  himself  there,  not  for  a 
moment  imagining  that  he  merely  wanted  to  walk  about  inside. 

How  could  a  man  have  the  strange  taste  to  walk  in  the 
deserted  Pincio,  on  that  holiday,  at  that  warm  afternoon  hour, 
when  everybody  was  mad  with  carnival  mirth,  from  the  Piazza 
Venezia  to  the  Piazza  del  Popolo  ?  The  crowd  was  incredulous 
of  such  eccentricity,  and  refused  to  let  Francesco  Sangiorgio  pass. 
Two  or  three  times  he  shouted,  his  cheeks  flushed  with  anger  : 

'  I  am  going  to  the  Pincio  !     I  am  going  to  the  Pincio  !' 

He  went  in.  No  sooner  had  he  rounded  the  corner  of  the 
avenue  than  a  great  sigh  of  relief  escaped  his  breast,  and  a 
sense  of  tranquillity  settled  upon  his  overwrought  nerves.  He 
was  entering  upon  the  green,  sloping  solitude  of  the  broad 
avenue,  under  the  soft  shadows  of  the  elms,  budding  out  anew 
in  the  anticipation  of  spring. 

Not  a  soul  was  to  be  seen  in  the  avenue,  which  in  one 
direction  went  towards  the  Villa  Medici  and  the  Trinita  dei 
Monti,  and  in  the  other  up  to  the  Pincio ;  there  was  not  a 
single  passer-by,  not  a  woman,  not  a  child.  Everyone,  every- 
one was  in  the  Corso,  in  the  street,  doorways,  balconies, 
loggias,  on  the  improvised  stands,  on  the  pedestals  of  lamp- 
posts, on  the  backs  of  carriages;  everyone,  everyone  was  in 
the  Corso,  seized  with  carnival  madness. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  247 

Francesco  Sangiorgio  felt  more  and  more  at  ease  and  peace, 
as  he  ascended  to  that  place  of  rural  solitude.  Now  and  then 
a  shred  of  an  echo  reached  him,  from  the  Piazza  del  Popolo, 
of  shrill,  piercing  voices  dampened  by  distance;  but  as  he 
went  further  away  the  echoes  diminished,  became  quite  faint, 
and  then  died.  To  anyone  skirting  the  wall  that  overlooks 
the  Piazza  del  Popolo,  down  below  there  still  was  visible  a 
great  black,  struggling  mass,  and  a  great,  transparent,  white 
haze,  a  white,  low  haze,  such  as  might  hover  over  a  swamp. 

On  the  ample  terrace,  broad  and  cheerful,  which  is  almost 
a  plain,  which  commands  a  view  of  Rome,  St.  Peter's,  the 
Vatican,  Monte  Mario,  and  all  the  Campagna  adjacent  to  the 
Tiber,  besides  the  Flaminian  gate,  a  poorly-clad  old  man  was 
sitting  on  a  bench,  under  a  tree.  His  walking-stick  was  left  to 
itself  between  his  legs,  the  sun  was  beating  down  on  his  face, 
and  he  had  closed  his  eyes,  succumbing  to  age,  the  warmth, 
and  sleep.  Leaning,  or  more  properly  lying,  on  the  broad 
baluster  of  the  terrace,  a  priest  was  looking  at  Rome,  a  little 
black  spot  in  front  of  the  large  white  spot  that  the  city 
appeared,  bathed  in  the  mellow  afternoon  sunshine.  Fran- 
cesco Sangiorgio  went  up  to  the  priest  to  see  who  he  was ;  he 
found  a  pale,  thin  youth,  with  freckled  face ;  but  he  was 
looking  neither  at  Rome  nor  the  indistinct,  dark  mass  swaying 
in  the  Piazza  del  Popolo  ;  he  was  reading  his  breviary,  a  stout 
book  bound  in  black,  with  yellow  leaves.  Sangiorgio  moved 
on  quickly,  feeling  safer  than  ever.  Indeed,  in  that  whole 
garden,  favoured  by  nurses,  governesses,  and  maid-servants, 
and  adored  by  children,  reigned  the  stillness  of  a  deserted  park, 
from  which  every  sound  and  every  sign  of  life  had  disappeared. 


248  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

The  large  circular  space  where  the  band  plays  looked  as  if 
it  had  been  unoccupied  for  years  ;  the  iron  desks  used  for 
concerts  were  standing  about  in  disorder  and  rusted,  as  if 
they  had  for  an  indefinite  length  of  time  been  exposed  to  sun 
and  rain,  without  ever  being  touched  by  the  hand  of  man ; 
the  little  stall  belonging  to  the  indiarubber  ball,  hoop,  and 
skipping-rope  vendor  was  untenanted,  and  the  wares  hung  on 
a  tree  with  no  one  to  think  of  selling,  buying,  or  stealing  them ; 
the  merry-go-round  was  at  a  standstill,  silent,  deserted,  with  its 
hideous  blue-and-red  horses ;  the  rope  of  the  swing  was 
dragging  down  as  if  weeping  at  being  forsaken.  On  other 
days  this  juvenile  playground  was  enlivened  with  childish 
shrieks,  loud  laughter,  maternal  calls,  merry  voices ;  now 
children  and  mothers  and  servants  were  down  below  there,  lost 
in  the  great  vortex  of  the  carnival,  seeming  to  have  forgotten 
their  delightful,  verdant  retreat,  when  the  nascent  spring-tide 
was  calling  everything  into  bloom. 

At  the  tiny  lake,  there  was  no  one  to  throw  bread-crumbs  to 
the  handsome  white  swan,  which  bent  its  neck  so  gracefully, 
like  a  drooping  maiden,  and  swam  so  deliberai^Jj!  about  its 
small  stagnant  pond  ;  the  swan  looked  worn  and  sad,  as 
though  it  missed  the  gentle  hands  of  the  creatures  wont  to 
feed  it.  The  water-dial,  dirty  and  splashed,  pointed  to  a 
quarter-past  five — of  what  day,  what  year  ?  One  of  the  wheels 
was  broken.  No  one  at  all  was  sitting  in  the  shade  of  the 
Swiss  cottage  so  much  liked  by  the  strange  German  seminarists 
who  dress  in  red,  and  the  pupils  of  the  Nazzareno  College ;  and 
from  the  raiUng  separating  the  ground  of  the  Villa  Medici  from 
the  Pincio  a  long,  dark,  dank  avenue  was  in  sight.     Under 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  249 

the  plane-trees,  the  marble  figures  of  Mercury,  with  cheeks 
rather  washed  out  by  the  rains,  with  their  curly  locks  blackened 
by  the  dampness,  looked  as  if  they  had  for  centuries  been  tired 
of  standing  there. 

And  Francesco  Sangiorgio  was  glad  of  these  solitary,  rural 
surroundings,  alive  with  new  sap  as  befitted  the  soft  season. 
The  large  garden,  with  its  spacious  walks,  seemed  entirely  his 
own,  left  to  him  by  the  roistering  multitude,  apt  for  the  con- 
cealment of  his  loves,  the  secluded  nest  of  a  pure,  sentimental 
idyll.  From  afar,  from  the  rear  terrace,  he  had  reviewed  the 
immense  green  body  of  foliage  of  the  Villa  Borghese,  where  it 
would  have  been  easy  to  hide ;  but  she  had  declined,  so  as 
not  to  be  obliged  to  cross  the  Piazza  del  Popolo  on  that 
horrible  carnival  day,  although  the  Villa  Borghese  gardens — 
yet  more  than  the  Pincio — then  resembled  a  huge  natural 
park,  untrodden  by  man,  a  vast  lonely  tract  of  virgin  country. 

Passing  the  dividing  line  between  the  Pincio  and  the  Villa 
Medici,  Sangiorgio  cast  a  regretful  glance  at  the  gloomy  dark- 
ness of  the  dense  alley  of  trees  where  his  sweet  idyll  would 
have  been  '•-*^>\  from  the  bright,  lavish  sunlight,  but  she  had 
refused,  since  a  special  permit  would  have  been  requisite  for 
the  Villa  Medici.  What  disturbed  Sangiorgio,  in  his  walk 
round  the  big  garden,  was  the  part  which  faced  Rome  and  the 
Piazza  del  Popolo,  all  that  open  side,  that  gigantic  breach, 
whence  at  moments  came  a  deep  drone,  the  clamour  of  the 
crowd  in  its  mirth  or  disappointment.  Each  time  he  turned 
towards  the  Villa  Borghese,  he  seemed  to  be  in  peace,  alone 
with  his  love,  unmolested  in  the  beneficent,  rural  solitude. 
Whenever  he  turned  back  towards  Rome,  the  sudden  view  of 


250  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

the  city  and  the  drone  and  the  whole  of  the  unwelcome  outer 
world  spoiled  all  his  dreams.  That  public,  that  crowd,  meant 
to  him  obstacles,  difficulties,  pain. 

When  she  arrived,  he  had  been  awaiting  her  for  an  hour,  but 
had  not  been  impatient,  being  still  unfamiliar  with  the  torture 
of  waiting  in  uncertainty,  still  a  believer  in  woman's  word. 

She  came  by  the  avenue  leading  to  the  Trinita  dei  Monti, 
having  left  her  carriage  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  ;  she  was 
dressed  in  dark-blue  cloth,  with  a  thin  white  veil  over  her  face, 
which  made  her  look  younger  ;  she  walked  softly,  without  any 
movement  of  her  skirts,  as  though  she  were  gliding  over  the 
ground,  not  coming  but  approaching.  At  a  certain  moment, 
both  raised  their  eyes  at  once,  and  their  glances  met  at  a 
distance  of  thirty  paces.  She  at  once  cast  her  eyes  down,  with- 
out hastening  her  step  ;  he  did  not  stir  from  the  little  buttress 
he  had  been  leaning  against,  as  he  waited  for  her,  watching 
her  advance  in  her  dark  dress,  in  her  youthful  white  veil. 
Surely  she  was  a  spring  flower,  a  large  human  flower  blooming 
for  his  special  delight. 

When  they  met,  they  neither  bowed  nor  put  out  their  hands ; 
her  small  fist  clasped  the  handle  of  her  sunshade,  a  miniature 
cock  carved  in  wood,  with  a  red  comb ;  they  did  not  speak  as 
they  walked  together,  without  looking  at  one  another. 

'  Thank  you,'  said  he. 

*  No,  no,'  she  answered  quickly,  and,  looking  round  with  a 
timid  glance,  she  added  :  '  Everybody  will  see  us  here.' 

'  There  is  no  one ;  do  not  be  afraid.' 

*  No  one  ?' 

'  No  one — because  of  the  carnival.' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  251 

*  True,  they  are  all  in  the  Corso  ;  I  was  to  have  gone,  too. 
And  she  stopped  on  the  broad,  sunny  terrace,  whence  they 

could  view  the  whole,  great,  riotous  sea  of  the  populace  in  the 
Piazza  del  Popolo.  He  felt  a  pang  at  his  heart,  as  if  the  sight 
robbed  him  of  a  portion  of  his  happiness.  She  laid  her  slender 
hand,  gloved  in  chamois,  on  the  parapet,  and  gazed  upon  the  great, 
dark  floods  of  people,  from  which  a  noise  rose  up  as  of  a  volcano. 

'  How  they  are  enjoying  themselves  down  there,*  she  mur- 
mured sadly. 

He  waited  behind  her,  seized  with  a  fit  of  impatience. 

*  Come  away,  come  away,'  he  urged. 

She  turned  her  back  to  the  city,  and  accompanied  him  to 
the  large  avenue  at  the  left ;  she  kept  her  eyes  on  the  ground 
as  if  wrapt  in  thought. 

'  No,  there  is  nobody  about,'  she  said,  as  though  in  relief. 
'  It  is  fortunate  that  it  is  carnival  time.  The  people  are  nearly 
mad.     Would  you  not  rather  be  down  there  ?' 

'  How  can  you    possibly  believe ?'    he  began   in   an 

injured  tone. 

*  There  are  many  things  I  can  no  longer  believe  in,'  she 
whispered,  as  though  in  self-communion. 

'  You  are  so  kind;  I  do  not  know  what  to  say;  be  merciful,'  he 
begged,  with  the  humility  of  a  Christian  before  the  Blessed  Image. 

'  I  have  sad  tidings  to  tell  you,  my  friend,'  she  continued, 
with  her  beautiful,  sympathetic  voice. 

*  Not  to-day,  not  to-day — to-morrow — another  day ' 

*  Better  to-day  than  to-morrow,'  she  interposed,  settling  her 
lovely,  mild  eyes  upon  the  Villa  Borghese  gardens.  '  You 
must  have  courage.' 


252                       THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 
*  I  have  none,  none  at  all ' 


'  You  must,'  she  insisted,  '  in  order  to  be  at  peace  with  your 
conscience.' 

And  with  a  shiver  she  wrapped  her  little  fur  pelisse  about 
her,  since  they  were  passing  close  to  the  sombre,  chilly  region 
of  the  Villa  Medici. 

'  Conscience,  conscience  !'  he  exclaimed  rebelliously.  '  And 
w^hat  of  love  ?' 

'  We  must  not  love,'  she  said  sententiously. 

*  And  why  not  ?' 

'  Because  they  will  not  allow  it.' 

'  Who  will  not  allow  it  ?' 

'  They. '  And,  pointing  with  her  finger,  she  indicated  Rome  and 
the  Piazza  del  Popolo,  where  the  carnival  fever  was  at  its  height. 

'  But  you  do  not  know  who  they  are.' 

'  They  are  our  conscience  :  I  could  never  endure  doing 
wrong  for  the  sake  of  love.' 

'  You  do  not  love,'  he  bitterly  remarked. 

'  Perhaps,'  she  said,  lost  in  contemplation  of  Monte  Mario. 

'  Come  away,  come  away,'  he  repeated,  seized  with  a  spasm 
of  repentance,  and  desirous  of  drawing  her  away  from  the 
spectacle  of  the  crowd. 

Indeed,  as  she  turned  her  back  upon  the  panorama  of  Rome, 
her  face  cleared,  and  her  thoughts  seemed  to  flow  in  a  brighter 
channel.  The  great  peace  of  the  Pincian  hill,  the  solitude,  the 
first  breath  of  spring,  the  sweet  afternoon  in  the  green,  the 
tepid  air,  the  looks  of  love  and  respect  he  bestowed  upon  her, 
the  fidelity  which  he  manifested,  the  amorous  reverence  with 
which  he  spoke  to  her,  made  her  forget  the  tumult  and  the  shout- 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  253 

ing  of  the  carnival-smitten  town,  made  her  forget  that  another 
world  existed  besides  the  country,  besides  spring,  besides  love. 

He  understood — oh  yes — that  a  little  of  that  soul  was  his, 
that  it  inclined  towards  him,  in  that  deserted  place,  in  the 
presence  of  the  foliage,  the  faUing  waters  of  the  fountain,  the 
brazen,  open  horizon.  But  he  divined  that  some  of  that  feminine 
soul  escaped  him,  that  most  of  that  heart  was  closed  against  him. 

In  this  solitude,  amid  the  new  budding  of  tree  and  flower, 
where  Nature  was  so  full  of  charm,  she  was  kind,  and  sweet, 
and  affectionately  sympathetic.  But  at  the  sight  of  that  hard, 
malignant  city,  that  never  forgives,  she  summoned  up  all  her 
courage  to  maintain  herself  inflexible,  stiffened  in  her  purpose 
to  demand  and  insure  the  sacrifice  of  love.  For  this  reason 
he  did  his  utmost  not  to  let  her  return  to  the  terrace  and  to 
the  view  upon  the  town,  persuaded  that  the  hour,  weather, 
and  place  had  a  softening  influence  on  her. 

*  One  must  not  love  too  late,'  she  resumed,  with  melancholy 
infinitely  sweet ;  '  it  is  useless  and  painful.  Where  were  you 
five  years  ago  ?' 

*  Down  there  in  the  Basilicata,'  he  replied,  with  avague  gesture. 
'And  I  was  up  there — up  there  in  the  mountains,  among 

the  snows.  I  believed  in  the  snows  of  the  glaciers,  the  in- 
vincible glaciers.  I  married  Don  Silvio  ;  he  was  kind ;  I  knew 
nothing  of  the  sun.     Now  the  sun  has  come  to  me  too  late.' 

*  Do  not  say  so — do  not  say  so  !'  he  implored. 

'  We  must  not  turn  the  snow  into  mud,  my  friend.' 
Then  there  was  silence.     He  became  extremely  pale,  as 
though  he  were  dying.     Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears ;  and  he 
gazed  into  the  brimming  orbs,  trembling  at  the  sight  of  those 
flowing  tears,  as  distressed  as  if  his  last  hour  had  come. 


254  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

But  he  did  not  tell  her  how  he  was  suffering ;  he  would  not, 
could  not  complain  ;  everything  that  came  from  her  was  good, 
was  sweet.  With  the  profound  unselfishness  of  true,  strong 
love,  he  forgot  all  his  own  griefs  when  he  looked  at  those 
lovely,  tearful  eyes,  saw  the  mournful  droop  of  those  lips. 
Her  sorrow  spurred  him  and  lifted  him  up ;  he  was  carried 
away  by  a  powerful,  voluptuous  thrill  of  sentiment. 

'  Life  is  very  hard  for  me,  I  must  tell  you,'  she  continued 
faintly,  as  if  her  emotions  had  overpowered  her.  '  I  have  no 
children  to  keep  my  heart  warm  with  a  mother's  love.  I  have 
an  old  man  who  is  utterly  cold  towards  me;  he  is  entirely 
taken  up  with  his  passion  for  something  else,  for  another  idea. 
Oh,  if  you  only  knew,  my  friend,  what  this  solitude  means, 
this  eternal  silence  !'  , 

'  But  why  do  you  submit  ?' 

'Because  I  do,'  she  said,  as  if  this  were  the  inscrutable 
decree  of  fate. 

And  she  went  on  walking,  speechless  and  still  slower,  as  though 
succumbing  to  fatigue  ;  he  kept  by  her  side,  without  seeing  or 
hearing  anything  further,  his  mind  and  his  senses  a  blank. 

The  sun  was  setting  behind  St.  Peter's,  between  the  church 
and  Monte  Mario. 

'  It  is  over,  my  friend — all  over.  I  almost  feel  as  if  I  were 
dead.  People  see  my  placid  face,  my  invariable  calmness, 
and  they  must  know  nothing  more  ;  they  must  never  guess  the 
truth.     But  there  is  nothing  left  in  here.' 

And  she  tapped  her  cloak  over  the  place  where  her  heart 
was.  She  was  unaware  what  a  cruel  blow  she  had  dealt  the 
enamoured  man  in  telling  him  she  could  never  love  him.    At 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  255 

that  hour  and  that  spot  she  was  yielding  to  one  of  the 
melancholy  and  egoistic  outbursts  of  self-contained  spirits ; 
she  had  lost  sight  of  her  companion  ;  she  gave  herself  up  to 
all  the  private  woes  of  a  disenchanted  young  soul. 

'But,' he  murmured,  'you  have  a  disinterested,  steadfast  friend, 
whose  devotion  will  stand  any  test ;  whatever  you  wish,  he  wishes ; 

his  desire  to  help  you,  humbly,  secretly,  knows  no  limit ' 

And  he  stopped  short,  because  his  voice  quavered,  because 
his  words  choked  him,  because  this,  his  unspeakable  love, 
threatened  to  overleap  all  bounds. 

'  Thank  you — thank  you,'  she  said,  a  sad  smile  lighting  up 
her  countenance  ;  '  I  know  it' 

'You  cannot — cannot  know.  I  have  never  told  you.  I 
never  shall  tell  you.  I  never  could  tell  you.  I  only  assure 
you  that  it  is  devotion  of  the  deepest  kind.  Why  reject  it  ? 
How  can  you  refuse  it  ?' 

'Because  it  is  too  much  like  love,  my  friend* 

'  Love  is  not  mentioned.' 

*  It  can  be  inferred.' 

'  You  must  not  understand  it  so ;  you  must  not  infer  thus. 
I  am  asking  nothing ;  I  want  no  more  than  to  be  allowed  to 
give  you  this  devotion.' 

'  So  you  say  to-day ;  to-morrow  love  will  demand  love.' 

'  Who  says  so  ?' 

'  Ah  me !     Experience,  my  friend !' 

'  Experience  lies !'  exclaimed  the  other,  with  violence.  *  My 
love  is  like  no  other.' 

Angelica  bowed  her  head  for  a  moment  as  if  convinced,  and 
Sangiorgio  repented  his  violence. 


256  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

*  Forgive  me,'  he  humbly  said,  '  but  the  idea  of  losing  you 
is  unendurable.' 

'But  we  must  part — better  now  than  later.  Later  on  we 
should  suffer  much  more  ;  I  should  be  more  in  the  wrong,  and 
you  would  have  a  better  right  to  accuse  me.  Habit  aggravates 
and  intensifies  love.  A  day  would  come  when  we  could  not 
possibly  separate — a  day  of  exultation  for  you,  of  shame 
for  me.  Now — we  are  still  free.  What  are  we  to  each  other  ? 
Nothing — and  it  is  best  so.  We  have  seen  one  another  four 
or  five  times ' 

*  I  have  always  seen  you.' 

*  In  the  midst  of  life's  frivolities ' 


'  I  wept  with  you  when  you  wept  in  the  Pantheon.' 

*  Among  inquisitive,  evil-minded  people ' 

'I  watched  you  for  an  hour,  that  day,  from  the  Ponte 
Nomentano,  when  you  let  the  rose-leaves  drift  on  the  current 
of  the  Aniene.     You  were  alone — we  were  alone ' 

*  Among  the  conventional  formalities  of  political  life ' 

'  How  lovely  you  were  that  night  at  the  Quirinal  ball !  I 
went  away  with  you.  You  did  not  speak.  You  said  nothing 
to  me.     How  lovely  you  were  !' 

*  It  is  a  dream — it  is  a  dream,'  she  returned,  inspired  to  the 
sacrifice  by  his  vibrant  words  of  love.  '  We  must  awake ;  we 
must  part' 

'  Then  it  is  death.' 

'  Who  is  speaking  of  death  ?* 

He  did  not  answer  her  question,  but  she  understood  his 
look  of  pain  and  reproach.  The  sun  had  set,  and  the 
great  purple,  crepuscular  shrouds  now  rose  from  the  earth  to 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  257 

the  white  sky ;  a  cold,  noxious  breeze  sprang  up  ;  from  the 
terrace  the  priest  had  vanished,  the  reader  of  the  breviary ; 
from  the  wooden  bench  the  old  man  had  vanished,  the  whole 
Pincian  hill  was  becoming  dark,  and  down  below  the  crowd 
was  howling  louder  than  ever,  excited  at  the  coming  of  evening. 
She  prepared  to  leave  by  the  broad  road  to  the  Trinita  dei 
Monti,  but  he  went  with  her,  as  if  bewitched,  without  a  word, 
but  intent  upon  going  anywhere  with  her.  At  the  stone  buttress 
where  she  had  met  him,  she  turned,  and  put  out  her  hand : 
'  Good-bye,  my  friend.' 

*  No,  not  good-bye  1' 

'  It  is  late,'  said  the  beloved  voice  in  a  measured  tone. 

And  Angelica  was  lost  in  the  vapours  of  evenfall. 
*  *  ♦  *  * 

From  the  Piazza  del  Popolo  to  the  Piazza  di  Venezia  the 
little  candles  were  now  being  lit.  There  were  a  myriad  tiny 
points  of  fire,  wandering  flamelets,  in  the  streets,  on  verandas, 
balconies,  carts ;  tiny,  nondescript,  dirty  bundles  flew  about ; 
long-handled  fans  were  active ;  handkerchiefs  and  rags  were  in 
motion  ;  there  was  jumping  about  and  puffing  out  of  mouths — 
all  manner  of  contrivances,  all  pranks,  all  sorts  of  violence  and 
brutality  were  indulged  in  to  extinguish  the  candles.  And  the 
shouts  of  resistance  and  attack  sounded  in  the  universal  human 
echo : 

*  Candles,  candles,  candles  1' 

Through  all  the  lights,  all  the  uproar,  and  all  the  tumultuous 
merry-making,  a  poor  mortal  was  making  his  way,  agonized 
with  pain,  unconsciously  pushed  about,  shouldered,  jostled. 


17 


CHAPTER  IV 

Three  times  they  had  met  on  the  great  road,  lined  with  elms 
and  plane-trees,  which  skirts  the  Tiber.  She  would  leave  her 
carriage  before  it  reached  the  Milvio  Bridge,  and  send  her 
coachman  back  to  wait  for  her  in  the  Piazza  San  Pietro.  She 
would  cross  the  bridge  on  foot,  looking  about  for  him  at  the 
same  time.  To-day  he  had  been  waiting  there  for  two  hours, 
crazed  with  impatience  and  his  intense  desire  of  being  in  her 
company,  walking  to  and  fro  opposite  the  Morteo  Tavern, 
taking  a  turn  in  the  Via  di  Tor  di  Quinto,  going  back  as  far  as 
the  bridge,  reaching  the  point  where  the  Flaminian  Way  begins, 
turning  back  again,  casting  restless  glances  all  about,  at  the 
green  willows  bending  over  the  river,  at  the  blossoming 
almond-trees  peering  over  the  hedges  of  the  Farnesina,  in 
vain  looking  steadily  in  the  direction  of  the  Ponte  Milvio, 
where  she  was  to  appear.  And  when  he  saw  her  in  the 
distance,  sudden  blushes  inflamed  his  pale  cheeks ;  he  would 
not  go  to  meet  her,  but  would  wait  where  he  stood,  pretending 
absent-mindedness  and  unconcern. 

She  always  came  after  missing  three  or  four  appointments, 
was  always  an  hour  or  an  hour  and  a  half  late,  never  apolo- 
gized, never  even  alleged  the  slightest  feminine  excuse.  And 
he,  who  was  in  despair — who  up  to  the  last  moment  had 
inwardly  been  accusing  her  of  coldness  and  indifference,  while 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  259 

he  stamped  his  feet  in  an  irresistible  fit  of  nervousness — when 
he  saw  her  said  not  a  word,  but  stared  at  her  quite  bewitched, 
compensated  by  that  moment  of  intense  joy  for  all  the  suffering 
endured. 

Their  first  moments  together  were  always  embarrassing; 
they  knew  not  what  to  say  to  one  another,  and  walked  slowly 
beneath  the  trees,  she  with  eyes  downcast,  her  hands  plunged 
in  her  muff,  so  as  to  have  an  excuse  for  not  taking  his  arm,  he 
twisting  his  extinguished  cigar  between  his  fingers,  and  in  a 
blissful  state  despite  Angelica's  severity  and  melancholy. 

The  Roman  spring  was  gently  pervading  the  atmosphere 
among  the  cypresses  of  the  Monte  Mario  and  the  plantains 
of  the  Monte  Parioli,  and  from  the  tall  hedges  by  river-bank 
and  countryside  emanated  a  strong  scent  of  white  hawthorn. 
Angelica's  first  words  usually  denoted  grief,  regret,  repentance ; 
brief  words  they  were,  but  earnest,  all  of  them  weighing  like 
lead  upon  her  lover's  heart.  He  would  remain  humbly  silent, 
at  a  loss  what  consolation  to  proffer  to  the  virtuous  and 
saintly  lady,  whose  conscience  was  stricken  with  remorse  on 
his  account. 

She  had  never  spoken  of  love  to  him,  and  never  had  he 
asked  her  for  it.  Timidity  and  shamefacedness  perpetually 
restrained  him.  Perhaps  he  feared  the  answer,  an  answer 
that  might  be  cruel  in  its  frankness  from  a  woman  who  was  not 
in  love,  and  whose  deep  religiosity  would  not  allow  her  to  lie. 

Thus  it  came  to  be  naturally  established,  in  their  singular 
relationship,  that  Donna  Angelica  was  to  give  nothing  of  her 
heart,  and  was  not  to  be  asked  to  give  any  of  it ;  it  was 
tacitly  but  plainly  understood  that  she  should  accept,  support, 

17 — 2 


26o  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

and  endure  his  love  without  ever  being  under  an  obligation  to 

return  it.    She  was  the  blessed  image  that  vouchsafed  to  lower 

gracious  eyes  upon   the  faithful  one ;   and  the  faithful  one 

worshipped  her  more  and  more,  adored  her,  and  spoke  to  her 

of  his  love.     Under  the  big  trees  of  the  Via  Angelica,  along 

which  wound  the  silvery  stream,  as  they  walked  on  the  hard 

earth  amid  the  odours  of  the  country,  and  as  the  sad  rocking 

of  Donna  Angelica's  voice  diminished,  with  bated  breath  did 

he  speak  to  her  of  his  love.     First  came  incoherent  sentencesi 

broken  up  by  passion,  which  hastily  recorded  his  feelings  and 

thoughts  since  he  had  last  seen  her,  or  those  he  had  before 

been  unable  to  utter  in  her  presence ;  and  while  he  ejaculated 

these  jerky,  almost  violent  sentences  he  looked  at  her  with  a 

madman's  eyes,  for  an  instant  terrifying  her.    But  at  the  sound 

of  his  own  voice  Sangiorgio  took  heart  of  grace ;  his  speech 

flowed  more  smoothly,   his  ideas  connected   themselves   in 

logical  sequence,  his  love  found  expression  in  such  plain  and 

convincing  eloquence  of  sentiment  that  Donna  Angelica  was 

reassured  by  his  humble  and  pleasing  language ;  her  face  grew 

red  like  a  young  girl's  in  the  pure  enjoyment  of  amorous 

homage.     Meanwhile,  she  would  be  picking  long  green  stalks, 

or  a  bunch  of  bright  yellow  swallow- wort,  or  clusters  of  the 

tiny  white  flowerets   resembling  lacework,   or  some  of  the 

poisonous  red  berries,  so  attractive  to  the  eye ;  and  he  spoke 

of  love,  and  she  suddenly  rejuvenated,  picked  flowers,  and 

occasionally  took  a  flower  from  her  bunch  to  give  to  him.    He 

would  hold  it  in  his  hand,  furiously  desiring  to  bite  it,  and 

one  day  he  wanted  to  eat  the  red  berries,  so  vivid  in  hue  and 

so  alluring. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  261 

'  Do  you  want  to  die  ?'  she  said  jestingly,  but  trembling  at 
the  same  time. 

And  that  apprehension  of  hers  was  one  of  the  moral 
treasures  Sangiorgio  was  gathering  together.  One  day  she 
stood  on  tip-toe  by  a  short  almond  tree,  and  broke  off  a  few 
sprigs,  smelh'ng  them  for  a  long  time,  with  a  happy  smile  on 
her  face.  Surely  she  was  spring  itself,  fresh  and  lightsome ! 
The  almond  blossom  she  gave  him  he  added  to  a  dried  piece 
of  lily  of  the  valley,  a  fragment  of  cloth  from  a  dress,  begged 
and  granted  as  a  great  favour,  and  a  precious,  invaluable 
object — a  cambric  pocket-handkerchief,  received  one  evening 
when  he  had  grown  desperate,  after  three  days  of  futile 
attempt,  and  asked  for  as  something  to  comfort  him.  She 
knew  this,  and  was  glad  in  the  knowledge.  She  looked  long 
in  the  direction  of  Castel  Sant'  Angelo,  towards  the  new 
carabineer  barracks,  towards  old  Rome,  where  the  lights  were 
beginning  to  be  lit.  But  though  she  might  be  looking  away, 
she  listened  to  all  the  words  that  Sangiorgio  spoke  so  softly, 
and  she  nodded  her  head,  like  a  pleased  child.  Thus  they 
reached  the  Porta  Angelica,  with  minds  soothed  and  at  peace ; 
he  was  to  take  the  Via  Reale,  which  leads  to  the  Prati  di 
Castello  and  the  Ripetta,  she  was  to  go  by  the  gate  on  the 
way  to  St.  Peter's.  But  their  farewell  was  long  and  full  of 
tenderness. 

One  day  she  arrived  all  a-tremble.  She  had  met  the 
Honourable  Giustini,  the  half-deformed  Tuscan  cynic.  Her 
carriage  had  passed  him  quickly,  yet  Giustini  had  had  time  to 
recognise  her,  and  had  bowed  with  an  air  of  astonishment. 
So  much  had  this  unbalanced  her  that  at  every  step  she  turned 


262  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

round,  imagining  every  passing  peasant  to  be  the  hump-backed 
deputy,  and  then  gazed  at  her  companion  in  utter  fright.  He 
in  vain  tried  to  reassure  her,  to  persuade  her  that  a  pedestrian 
could  not  follow  a  fast-trotting  carriage,  that  the  Flaminian 
Way  was  a  public  thoroughfare,  where  there  was  nothing 
remarkable  about  meeting  a  lady  driving.  Nevertheless, 
himself  was  seized  with  the  vague  apprehension  which  attacks 
lovers  in  their  fullest  felicity,  and  spoils  their  most  innocent 
joys.  That  meeting  was  therefore  painful,  and  the  two  were 
unable  to  settle  into  their  usually  tranquil  state,  and  Angelica 
summarized  her  fears  in  this  sentence  : 

'  Now  Giustini  is  in  the  chamber,  and  is  telling  everyone, 
even  my  husband,  that  he  met  me  on  the  Flaminian  Way.' 

In  this  unpleasant  hour  Sangiorgio  ventured  to  tell  her  that 
the  public  highways  were  no  suitable  place  for  their  attach- 
ment, that  it  must  be  concealed  in  a  house,  between  four  walls, 
far  from  prying  eyes  and  inquisitive  idlers.  He  spoke  with 
such  respectful  feeling,  such  deep  deference,  such  honest 
candour,  that,  although  she  at  once  briefly  answered  'No,' 
she  did  so  in  a  quite  unofifended  tone.  She  replied  '  No '  to 
all  the  humble  proposals  he  had  to  offer,  saying  it  slowly  and 
decisively,  without  anger  or  vacillation.  At  a  certain  point  she 
said,  as  if  vexed : 

'  Stop  it !' 

He  stopped.  They  separated  without  further  conversation. 
But  from  the  fatal  hour  that  she  had  met  Giustini,  they  felt 
the  awkwardness  of  pursuing  their  love  affair  in  public  more 
and  more,  of  trusting  to  chance,  and  taking  no  precautions 
although  the  danger  was  patent.     It  was  a  migratory,  homeless 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  263 

affair,  a  vagabond  affair  that  made  the  waiters  lounging  about 
the  Morteo  Cafe,  at  the  Ponte  Molle,  smile  ironically,  a 
melancholy  affair,  whose  tender  adieus  made  the  vulgar  tax- 
officials  at  the  Porta  Angelica  laugh. 

Two  further  meetings  were  very  painful.  Fear  had  now 
settled  in  Donna  Angelica's  heart,  and  made  her  shudder 
whenever  a  waggoner  or  a  huntsman  passed  by;  even  the 
boats  on  the  Tiber  frightened  her.  She  was  always  thinking 
the  boatmen  might  recognise  her,  and  might  salute  her  by 
raising  their  oars.  They  no  longer  talked  of  love.  That  is  to 
say,  he  no  longer  talked  of  love,  since  she  would  interrupt 
him  incessantly,  looking  round,  lowering  her  head  when  any 
carriage  with  strangers  passed,  blushing,  paling,  almost  losing 
her  breath. 

One  day  when  they  had  an  appointment,  it  rained  hard  for 
an  hour  before  the  time.  He  took  shelter  under  the  Morteo 
doorway,  but,  unable  to  control  his  impatience,  went  on  towards 
the  Ponte  Molle,  becoming  utterly  soaked,  trying  to  descry 
someone  through  the  veil  of  rain.  He  saw  nobody.  She 
could  not  possibly  have  come  in  such  weather,  yet  he  per- 
sistently waited,  sustained  by  a  vague  hope.  The  rain 
continued,  and,  of  course,  she  did  not  come ;  but  he  returned 
to  Rome  only  at  seven  o'clock,  wet  to  the  skin,  in  an  open 
tram,  with  his  feet  on  the  sodden  floor  of  the  last  one  from 
Ponte  Molle  to  Rome,  in  a  very  downcast,  desolate  mood, 
almost  ill.  He  could  not  tell  her  of  it  that  evening,  since  she 
was  surrounded  with  people,  and  so  she  knew  nothing  of  the 
dismal  hours  he  had  spent  in  the  rain  of  heaven  and  the  mists 
of  the  river. 


264  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

But  the  next  time  he  repeated  his  suggestion  she  still 
said  *No,'  although  unemphatically,  as  if  she  were  rather 
answering  herself  than  him.  The  hour  was  late  and  the 
weather  freezing.  It  was  one  of  those  horrible  January  days 
transported  into  April ;  a  lashing  north  wind  was  raging,  the 
sky  was  murky,  and  the  ground  soaking  and  miry.  She  had 
on  a  little  velvet  cape,  which  barely  protected  her  neck  and 
shoulders,  so  that  the  cold  penetrated  her  from  top  to  toe ;  her 
head  was  bent,  and  she  was  holding  her  pocket-handkerchief 
to  her  mouth.  Sangiorgio,  too,  was  very  cold,  in  his  light 
spring  overcoat,  but  he  did  not  mention  the  fact,  both  of  them 
being  disappointed  and  depressed  by  the  weather.  At  intervals 
he  asked  her : 

*  You  are  very  cold,  are  you  not  ?' 

*  Oh  yes,*  she  replied  gently. 

*  Oh,  Lord !'  he  said,  looking  about,  not  knowing  what  to 
do  to  make  her  warm. 

They  hastened  their  steps,  but  the  mud  was  splashing 
Donna  Angelica's  boots  and  the  bottom  of  her  dress,  and 
they  could  not  run.  As  if  accidentally,  he  brought  up  the 
subject  of  a  warm  room  like  his  own,  like  that  in  the  Piazza 
dell'  Apollinare,  where  a  fire  was  always  burning  in  the  hearth, 
a  room  where  they  would  be  alone. 

She  made  no  answer. 

*  Where  ?'  she  finally  asked,  after  a  lengthy  silence. 
He  was  about  to  tell  her,  but  checked  himself. 

'  Down  there,'  he  then  said,  indefinitely  pointing  to  Rome. 
Nothing  more  passed  between  them.     The  hour  was  getting 
late,  and  it  was  growing  dark  and  cold  in  the  deserted  Campagna. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  265 

She  was  so  melancholy  and  frightened  that,  for  the  first  time, 
she  passed  her  arm  under  her  friend's,  who  received  this  favour 
with  due  humility.  Then  for  three  mortal  days  he  did  not 
see  her  at  all.  Vargas  told  him  at  the  Chamber  that  she  was 
indisposed.  The  fourth  evening  he  found  her  alone,  for  a 
minute,  in  a  box  at  the  Apollo  Theatre;  she  was  pale  and 
looked  ill.  Behind  her  large  feather  fan  she  confided  to  him 
that  on  her  way  back  from  their  last  tryst  she  had  seen  the 
Honourable  Oldofredi  near  St.  Peter's,  who  had  looked  her 
all  over  and  grinned  maliciously.  Oldofredi  was  known  to  be 
revengeful.  Finally,  blushing  for  shame,  she  expressed  doubts 
about  her  coachman  and  maid ;  she  was  sure  they  were  spying 
on  her.  And,  seeing  her  friend  dumfounded  and  hopeless,  she 
added  very  quickly  : 

'  I  will  go — I  will  go  wherever  you  please.' 


CHAPTER  V 

When  he  returned  that  night  to  his  modest  lodgings  in  the 
Via  Angelo  Custode,  Francesco  Sangiorgio  was  in  an  almost 
feverish  state.  Donna  Angelica's  promise  scourged  his  blood, 
his  head  was  all  a-buzz  and  confused.  And  immediately  upon 
entering  his  parlour,  a  chilly  sensation,  and  the  bad  smell 
forever  pervading  the  place,  made  him  shudder  and  feel 
nauseated.  In  order  not  to  see  the  bare,  wretched  room,  he 
neither  lighted  the  lamp  not  even  struck  a  match.  He  threw 
himself  dressed  on  his  bed,  and  thought  of  the  sort  of  house 
in  which  he  could  receive  Donna  Angelica. 

His  heated  imagination,  consumed  with  excitement  and 
love,  soared  in  visions.  He  conceived  nothing  definite, 
nothing  exact.  He  saw  before  his  open  eyes  a  flight  of  warm, 
scented  rooms,  with  heavy,  triple  curtains,  with  soft  carpets 
deadening  every  sound,  but  did  not  know  where  they  would 
be,  these  rooms.  He  could  not  determine  in  what  part  of 
Rome  they  could  be  found,  now  selecting  the  Janiculum,  now 
the  Piazza  Navona,  now  the  Via  Sistina,  now  the  Piazza  di 
Spagna.  And  this  uncertainty,  this  state  of  not  knowing, 
racked  him  terribly ;  it  was  torture  of  the  kind  involved  in  a 
bad  or  unfinished  dream,  whose  victim  wants  to  walk  and 
cannot  stir,  tries  to  scream  and  finds  no  voice.     Where  was 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  267 

the  door  to  these  rooms,  where  was  the  staircase,  which  way 
did  the  windows  face  ? 

He  would  see  in  his  mind's  eye  a  blaze  of  colours,  the  red 
of  a  silk  curtain  reflected  on  the  wall,  the  tawny  flash  of  a 
plush  lounge,  the  metallic  glitter  from  a  Damascus  blade  under 
a  ray  of  light,  the  intricate  design  of  some  old,  yellow  lace. 
But  all  this  presented  itself  to  him  hazily,  without  his  having 
a  notion  as  to  the  where,  the  how,  the  when,  or  as  to  anything. 
Where  would  Donna  Angelica  sit  when  she  came  to  this  house, 
where  would  she  rest  her  tired  little  feet,  where  would  she  put 
her  beautiful  arm,  and  assume  her  usual,  ravishing  attitude? 
He  then  fancied  that  in  this  house  there  would  be  neither 
chairs,  sofas,  stools,  nor  tables;  he  fancied  an  empty,  vast, 
limitless  space,  where  he  and  Donna  Angelica  would  be  lost  to 
the  world. 

His  imaginings  made  him  writhe  with  anguish;  a  weight 
lay  on  his  chest,  his  blood  ran  riot,  his  head  was  dizzy. 

Stretched  out  upon  his  bed,  half  awake  and  half  asleep, 
alternately  in  dismay  and  bliss  over  his  dreams,  he  did  not 
budge  for  fear  that  the  whole  might  vanish,  and  Donna 
Angelica's  promise  as  well ;  and  at  every  new  quarter  of  an 
hour  spent  in  mental  contortion  his  dream  changed,  was 
transmuted,  was  strangely  reversed,  became  fearful  or  comical. 
At  one  time  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  been  waiting  for 
Donna  Angelica  ever  since  his  memory  had  begun,  and  that 
she  never,  never  came.  The  white  curtains  became  yellow, 
and  then  gray ;  the  hangings  were  discoloured  and  ruined  by 
moths,  falling  to  pieces,  falling  into  dust ;  the  furniture  was  all 
filthy,  tumble-down  from  age;  at  the  bottom  of  the  flower- 


268  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

stand  was  a  small  heap  of  pestilent  refuse  that  once  had  been 
flowers;  the  very  walls  exhaled  dampness  and  decay,  and 
seemed  quite  rotten.  And  he,  Sangiorgio,  in  his  everlasting 
wait,  seemed  to  have  become  a  tottering  old  man,  more  than 
a  hundred  years  old,  slow,  infirm,  with  long,  white  beard  and 
wan  face.  Donna  Angelica  never,  never  came,  and  Sangiorgio 
continued  to  wait,  patient  and  lovelorn.  Then  a  great  voice 
thundered  thrice  through  the  house :  *  Donna  Angelica  is 
dead !     Donna  Angelica  is  dead !     Donna  Angelica  is  dead  !' 

The  first  time,  the  furniture  fell  into  bits ;  the  second,  the 
old  man  fell  dead,  face  down  and  arms  out ;  the  third,  the  walls 
of  the  house  crumbled,  burying  everything  beneath  them, 
making  a  tomb  of  the  house  Donna  Angelica  would  not  visit. 

His  dream  was  perpetually  changing.  He  thought  that  on 
the  day  of  the  first  meeting  in  this  house,  he  through  some 
curious  cause  had  forgotten  the  hour  of  the  appointment,  and 
was  fretting  his  brain  to  recall  whether  it  was  for  two  o'clock 
or  three,  but  was  not  sure,  could  not  remember. 

Then  he  left  Montecitorio  at  noon,  so  as  to  be  in  time,  but 
in  the  corridor  he  met  the  old  Prime  Minister,  who  stopped 
him,  and,  while  stroking  his  flowing  white  beard,  talked  to  him 
about  the  Basilicata,  salt,  peasants,  and  things  scarcely  intelli- 
gible to  Sangiorgio,  so  absent-minded  did  he  seem. 

He  contrived  to  escape  from  him,  but  on  the  threshold  of 
the  portico  he  met  the  Honourable  Giustini,  whose  hump  had 
become  enormous,  and  whose  venomous  grin  gave  him  a  pain 
in  the  chest,  as  if  a  leech  had  been  sucking  his  blood. 
Giustini  barred  his  way,  crossing  his  crooked  legs,  talking  to 
him  of  Rome,  Rome  that  pretended  to  be  lazily  asleep,  but 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  269 

that  was  really  very  wide  awake;  and  he  clenched  his  arm, 
hurting  him  as  he  did  so.  Eventually  Sangiorgio  tore  himself 
abruptly  away  from  Giustini's  grasp,  and  ran  across  the  Piazza 
Colonna,  where  a  female  voice  hailed  him  from  a  closed 
carriage.  He  did  not  want  to  stop,  yet  felt  he  was  being 
drawn  to  the  carriage  against  his  will.  A  pair  of  black, 
sparkling  eyes  gazed  upon  him  with  love  and  desire;  there 
were  the  luscious,  alluring  lips  that  had  kissed  him,  and  were 
ready  to  kiss  him  again  ;  there  were  the  soft,  caressing  hands ; 
there  was  the  strong,  sweet  odour  of  violets ;  there  was  Donna 
Elena  Fiammanti,  who  had  liked  him,  and  liked  him  still,  and 
who,  without  moving  her  lips,  said  to  him  : 

*  Come  with  me !  come,  remember  it  all !  Remember  when 
we  met  on  Christmas  Day  at  the  Janiculum ;  remember  the 
night  of  the  ball,  and  the  moon,  and  the  Piazza  di  Spagna; 
remember  the  roses  I  left  at  your  house  that  day ;  remember 
the  kiss  I  gave  you  in  the  theatre  after  the  duel ;  remember 
all  my  kisses,  all  my  love ;  come  with  me — with  me  is  joy,  with 
me  is  pleasure,  with  me  you  shall  not  weep,  with  me  you  shall 
not  suffer.  So  come,  tell  me  what  afflicts  you,  and  I  will 
comfort  you  ;  I  will  not  tell  you  of  my  sorrows,  me  you  shall 
have  no  need  to  comfort.' 

But  he  bent  his  head,  stuffed  up  his  ears,  shut  his  eyes, 
in  order  not  to  hear  that  fascinating  voice,  in  order  not  to  see 
that  face  grow  mournfully  sad.  He  said  a  name  to  himself 
— '  Angelica ' — his  talisman,  and  it  seemed  as  if  its  echo 
struck  Donna  Elena  in  the  heart,  as  if  she  threw  herself  back 
despairingly  in  the  carriage,  and  ordered  the  coachman  to 
drive  quickly  away. 


^^o  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

Sangiorgio  ran  on  and  on.  All  the  carriages  he  met  were 
full,  all  the  friends  he  met  tried  to  stop  him,  a  crowd  hedging 
him  in  on  all  sides  prevented  his  progress.  Dogs  got  in  his 
way.  He  ran  on  and  on,  panting,  panting.  Now  he  could 
not  be  in  time ;  it  was  too  late.  Donna  Angelica  would  be 
there  already.  She  would  have  gone;  she  would  not  have 
waited.  What  a  long  way  to  go,  what  obstacles,  what 
hindrances  !  At  last  he  had  reached  the  place.  Red  in  the 
face,  out  of  breath,  hopeless,  he  now  stopped  short.  In  front 
of  the  door  walked  the  Honourable  Oldofredi,  sardonic, 
dangerous,  grinning.  The  very  wound  in  his  face  that 
Sangiorgio  had  inflicted  grinned.  He  was  walking  back  and 
forth  on  guard,  hideous,  hateful,  vengeful,  implacable. 
*♦■)(■  -x-  * 

The  house  was  No.  62,  Piazza  di  Spagna.  At  the  door  an 
itinerant  flower-girl  had  set  down  her  basket  of  spring  flowers  : 
pale,  odorous  Parma  violets,  double  roses,  sweet-smelling 
jonquils.  The  staircase  was  dark,  and  three  doors  opened 
upon  the  landing.  Sangiorgio's  card  was  affixed  to  the  central 
door  by  two  pins.  In  a  small  anteroom  Noci  had  put  a  bridal 
coffer  of  handsomely  carved  oak,  on  which  lay  a  cushion  of 
red  and  yellow  silk,  and  by  its  side  stood  three  or  four  stools 
and  a  table.  A  bronze  lamp  was  suspended  from  the  ceiling. 
It  was  always  burning,  and  created  an  illusion  of  night  in  the 
rather  gloomy  anteroom,  whose  ugly  ceiling  and  whose  walls 
were  covered  by  painted  canvas,  which  concealed  some 
grotesque  pictures  and  a  large  map  of  France.  The  sitting- 
room  had  a  large  window  overlooking  the  square.  It  was  a 
spacious,  cheerful,  sunny  room.     Damask  curtains  of  old  rose 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  271 

and  pale  green,  falling  over  a  widow-shade  of  yellow  lace, 
softened  the  garish  light  of  day.  The  walls  were  stretched 
with  sdtin  of  a  light  nut  colour,  which  disappeared  beneath 
Persian  rugs  and  squares  of  antique  brocades,  artistically 
draped,  and  held  in  place  by  a  shining  metal  shield,  by  a 
silver  scimitar,  or  by  fan-shaped  tufts  of  peacock's  feathers. 
A  sandalwood  rosary,  one  of  the  long  necklaces  of  perfumed 
beads  which  Turkish  women  are  always  running  through  their 
fingers  to  scent  their  hands,  and  to  kill  heavily  hanging  time  by 
a  monotonous  pastime — such  a  Turkish  rosary,  not  for  praying, 
but  for  pleasure  of  touch  and  mind,  a  comboloi  hung  upon 
one  of  the  walls  ;  from  the  other  hung  a  great  white  veil  with 
silver  stars,  the  gear  worn  by  Eastern  women  called  feredje. 
But  the  strange,  dominant  feature  was  on  the  walls — a  piece 
of  antique,  yellow  brocade,  something  like  an  oriflamme,  with  a 
Latin  cross,  cut  lengthwise  and  crosswise  in  black  velvet,  a 
cross  that  stood  out  strikingly  amid  all  the  quiet  tints  of 
hazelnut,  dull  brick,  and  pale  pink  which  prevailed  in  the 
room.  The  place  was  extremely  luxurious.  There  was  not 
a  single  piece  of  bare  wooden  furniture,  not  a  table  or  stool 
with  sharp  corners ;  everything  was  velvet,  silk,  and  satin. 
In  vases  of  opalescent  glass  were  hyacinths,  mauve  lilac,  white 
and  blue ;  an  orchid  in  a  Japanese  vase  was  languidly 
shedding  its  leaves.  On  an  immense  divan  eiderdown 
cushions  lay,  heaped  up  in  a  corner,  in  fabrics  of  purple, 
scarlet,  amaranth,  light  pink,  in  short  every  shade  of  red, 
from  the  faint  blush  in  the  heart  of  the  white  rose  to  the 
darkest  wine  colour ;  this  might  serve  for  a  chair,  a  bed,  or  a 
throne.     The  two  windows  of  the  bedroom  also  fronted  upon 


272  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

the  Piazza  di  Spagna ;  it  was  a  sort  of  second  parlour,  draped 
with  dark  blue  velvet  striped  white  and  silver.  There  was  no 
bed,  but  only  a  low  divan,  over  which  lay  a  blue  and  silver 
cover  with  a  long,  ornate  *  A '  worked  in  the  middle.  Over- 
head a  tent,  which  was  the  colour  of  the  nocturnal  sky,  and, 
like  it,  sprinkled  with  stars,  threw  down  a  discreet  shadow. 
It  formed  a  peculiar  triangle,  sustained  by  silver  ropes  and 
loops.  A  rosewood  cupboard  relieved  this  sombre  tone, 
besides  some  of  the  small,  dainty,  coquettish  furniture  of  the 
kind  affected  by  the  Pompadour. 

In  a  tall  Japanese  vase,  big  enough  for  a  man  to  hide  in,  a 
paradise  plant  spread  its  opulent,  richly-veined  leaves.  There 
was  not  another  plant,  not  another  flower.  The  little  dressing- 
room  adjoining  was  hung  with  creamy  cashmere,  and  on  a 
table  all  enveloped  in  snowy  muslin  was  displayed  a  set  of 
toilet  articles  in  oxidized  silver,  between  two  enormous  full- 
blown white  azaleas.  The  place  has  been  furnished  in  four 
days,  in  obedience  to  Sangiorgio's  desperate  haste.  At  first 
he  had  comported  himself  rationally,  going  there  occasionally 
to  superintend  matters,  but  soon  he  became  too  impatient. 
Everything  seemed  too  ugly  for  her  j  nothing  could  be  done 
quickly  enough.  He  went  away,  determined  to  come  back 
only  when  the  house  should  be  finished,  sleeping  or  dozing  or 
dreaming  the  while  in  his  cold,  foul-smelling  quarters  in  the 
Via  Angelo  Custode,  pending  the  preparation  of  the  lovers' 
nest  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna. 

He  did  not  return  until  everything  was  ready,  and  then  his 
emotions  were  at  once  joyous  and  sorrowful.  What  would  she 
say  to  it  ?    Was  not  the  sitting-room  too  voluptuous  for  the 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  273 

fair,  dignified  creature,  who  never  threw  herself  into  an  easy 
attitude  in  an  armchair  ?  Would  not  this  Oriental  savour  be 
too  sensual  for  the  chaste  mind  of  that  gentlest  of  beings  ? 
Were  not  the  hyacinths,  those  flowers  without  leaves,  too 
carnal  in  their  efflorescence?  And  those  piled  cushions, 
crimson  and  faint  pink — did  they  not  too  directly  invite  to 
repose,  the  perfidious  repose  in  which  the  soul  surrenders  ? 

The  bedroom  he  thought  handsome  in  its  severity,  but 
never  would  the  pure  one  enter  it.  He  was  satisfied  and 
agitated.  He  had  wished  the  apartment  to  be  fitted  out  as  a 
retreat  for  lovers,  and  this  was  accomplished.  The  secrecy 
and  seclusion  of  the  spot,  the  floral  and  exotic  perfumes,  now 
upset  his  ideal — or,  rather,  gave  rise  to  a  new  ideal,  more  vital, 
more  human. 

***** 

Here,  in  his  apartments  warmed  by  the  bright  sun,  which 
blazed  upon  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  from  the  dark  Propaganda 
Fide  to  the  cheerful  Albergo  di  Londra,  Francesco  Sangiorgio 
was  sitting  opposite  the  open  grate,  where  a  fire  of  dry  wood 
was  always  crackling  and  flaming,  waiting  for  Donna  Angelica. 
As  soon  as  the  apartment  was  completed,  he  had  begun  to  repeat 
his  persuasions  whenever  he  found  himself  alone  with  her  for 
a  moment,  at  her  house,  at  the  theatre,  in  the  diplomatic 
gallery,  going  from  one  door  to  another,  in  a  corridor,  on  the 
threshold  of  her  home,  in  any  place  where  he  could  say  a 
word  or  give  a  beseeching  look  without  being  seen  or  heard. 
This  matter  of  meeting  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  house  had 
become  his  mania ;  he  neither  spoke  to  her  of,  nor  asked  her 
for,  anything  else.     She,  repenting  of  having  made  the  con- 

18 


274  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

cession,  and  plunged  into  scruples,  still  refused  to  come, 
shaking  her  head,  distrustful  of  him  and  of  love,  and  apprehen- 
sive of  being  seen  in  the  streets.  She  never  mentioned  her 
fears,  her  suspicions,  but  persisted  in  declining,  always 
possessed  by  the  indifference  of  a  chaste  woman,  cured  of 
ardent  impulses,  beyond  any  inclination  to  sin  against  religion. 
He  became  irritated  and  indignant  at  her  suspicion,  embittered 
through  her  resistance,  the  violence  of  his  temperament  and 
desires  clashing  against  Donna  Angelica's  mildness,  shattering 
against  her  refusal.  Profound  exasperation  at  himself  and 
love  began  to  take  root  in  him,  and  he  felt  the  injustice  of 
such  treatment  from  the  woman  he  loved.  One  evening, 
overcome  with  resentment  because  of  Donna  AngeUca's  in- 
gratitude, trembling  with  anger,  he  said  to  her  : 

*  Well — tell  me — why  are  you  afraid — of  what — of  whom  ? 
Have  I  not  always  been  obedient  to  your  wishes  ?  Do  you 
not  understand,  Angelica,  that  you  are  in  no  danger  whatever 
with  me  ?  Your  strength  is  in  yourself — you  have  no  weak- 
nesses— you  never  falter !' 

She  raised  her  head,  all  blushing  with  pride  and  defiance. 

*  I  will  come,'  she  said,  like  a  heroine  sure  of  victory. 
'When?* 

'  I  do  not  know.  One  of  these  days.  You  know  the  hours 
at  which  I  am  free.' 

Further  particulars  she  would  not  give.  She  felt  no 
obligation  to  do  so,  believed  he  lived  there  in  the  Piazza  di 
Spagna,  and  that  it  cost  him  nothing  to  wait  for  her.  She 
believed  in  his  devotion ;  like  all  women,  she  counted  only 
her  own  sacrifice,  and  could  not  estimate  that  of  the  other  side. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  275 

And  every  day  towards  the  end  of  a  very  beautiful  April 
Sangiorgio  spent  several  expectant  hours  in  the  little  sitting- 
room  of  the  Piazza  di  Spagna.  He  rose  rather  late  in  his 
wretched  lodgings  in  the  Via  Angela  Custode,  and  dressed 
leisurely  while  sipping  a  cup  of  atrocious  coffee,  brought  in  by 
the  servant.  He  touched  neither  pen  nor  book  in  the  morning, 
but  left  the  reeking  atmosphere  of  those  rooms  as  soon  as 
possible.  From  instinctive  curiosity  he  went  to  Montecitorio 
for  his  letters,  but  set  foot  neither  in  the  reading-rooms  nor  the 
lobbies.     Some  of  his  colleagues  addressed  him  thus  : 

'  What  has  become  of  you  ?  We  never  see  you  nowadays. 
Why  have  you  left  off  attending  the  sittings  ?' 

'  I  have  some  work  to  do,'  he  would  reply,  passing  a  hand 
over  his  forehead. 

Or  someone  would  inquire  : 

*  I  suppose  you  have  been  to  the  Basilicata,  Sangiorgio  ?  Is 
your  agricultural  report  nearly  ready  ?' 

'  Yes,  yes,  I  have  been  in  the  Basilicata,'  he  would  answer, 
very  much  embarrassed  and  very  red,  adding  vaguely :  '  Yes, 
the  report  will  soon  be  finished ;  it  is  a  tremendous  piece  of 
work.' 

He  avoided  being  questioned,  since  he  hated  lies,  and  was 
not  adept  in  the  invention  of  them.  He  went  away  from 
Montecitorio,  reading  his  letters  without  grasping  their  intent, 
uninterested  in  the  requests  of  his  constituents  and  of  the 
officials  in  his  district.  Up  to  a  month  before  he  had  been  a 
model  deputy,  cool  but  courteous,  answering  all  inquiries, 
frequently  doing  so  on  the  day  of  receipt;  not  losing  much 
time  over  unimportant  people^  wisely  rendering  services  to 


276  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

influential  constituents,  and  to  everybody  likely  to  be  useful, 
satisfying  one  with  a  promise,  or  securing  realization  for 
another — in  fact,  offending  no  one.  But  now  all  this  was 
distasteful  to  him ;  he  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  it. 
His  mind  dwelt  incessantly  on  the  pretty  little  nest  where  his 
sweet  lady  would  come  to  see  him,  and  with  a  nervous  gesture 
he  would  thrust  his  correspondence  into  his  pockets,  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  and  would  go  straight  to  the  Colonne,  to  break- 
fast there  all  alone,  absorbed  in  his  fancies,  immersed  in 
Buddhist-like  meditations  on  love.  He  ate  blindly,  and  when 
his  conscience  happened  to  prick  him  because  of  urgent  letters 
to  be  answered,  he  would  order  paper,  pens,  and  ink,  and 
would  write  hurriedly,  briefly,  on  a  corner  of  his  little  table, 
leaving  his  beefsteak  to  get  cold. 

But  after  a  few  letters  disgust  and  impatience  would  over- 
take him ;  he  would  pay  the  bill  and  depart  quickly.  Some- 
times the  letters  he  had  written  remained  in  his  pockets  several 
days ;  he  had  forgotten  them,  and  they  were  no  longer  any 
use.  By  one  o'clock  he  was  always  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna, 
buying  flowers  from  all  the  flower-girls,  loading  himself  with 
roses,  hyacinths,  and  violets,  hastening  so  as  not  to  miss 
Angelica,  who  might,  perhaps,  be  at  his  very  door  while  the 
key  was  in  his  pocket. 

The  quiet,  luxurious,  cheerful  atmosphere  of  the  apartment 
gave  him  a  delightful  sensation  of  contentment.  Donna 
Angelica  was  certain  to  come;  she  had  promised — yes,  she 
was  certain  to  come.  And  he  would  set  himself  to  lighting  the 
fire,  squatting  on  the  ground,  like  an  eager  husband  much  in 
love.     He  knew  that  he  would  be  displeased  if,  when  the 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  277 

wood  was  burning  brightly,  Donna  Angelica  did  not  express 
approval  of  the  blaze  which  quickens  the  blood  and  warms  the 
heart. 

Then  he  would  wander  about  the  apartment,  putting  flowers 
in  the  vases,  throwing  away  those  that  were  faded  in  the  little 
empty  kitchen;  and  sometimes  he  placed  a  jar  of  hyacinths 
differently,  bunched  roses  and  violets  together,  separated  them 
again,  never  satisfied,  pursuing  this  lover's  task  with  great 
assiduity.  He  would  wander  about  the  apartment,  and  the 
bedroom,  with  the  low  soft  divan,  would  always  cause  him  a 
nervous  thrill.  He  would  go  back  into  the  sitting-room,  to  the 
fire — the  chaste,  comfortable  fire,  the  purifying  fire,  the  symbol 
of  a  noble  soul.     There  he  would  wait. 

Fortunately,  the  contemplation  of  a  fire  is  a  great  pleasure 
to  thoughtful  and  intense  souls,  so  that  Francesco  Sangiorgio 
was  able  to  restrain,  to  rock,  as  it  were,  his  impatience  at 
Donna  Angelica's  absence. 

Though  spending  five  or  six  hours  a  day  alone  by  the  grate 
in  the  little  room  without  venturing  to  go  away,  he  learnt  to 
follow  the  whole  life  of  the  fire,  from  the  small  spark  that 
grows  and  spreads  to  the  big  roaring  flame,  from  the  vigorous 
and  powerful  blaze  to  the  spark  that  shrinks,  dims,  dies.  His 
eye,  on  those  long  spring  afternoons,  mild  to  suffocation, 
followed  the  life,  the  glow,  the  death  of  each  ember;  and 
while  his  whole  soul  cried  out  and  longed  for  Donna  Angelica, 
consuming  away  for  very  desire,  the  fire  was  burning,  like 
himself,  with  the  same  heat,  the  same  flaring  up,  the  same 
languid  smouldering,  that  by  degrees  perished.  The  fire  was 
at  its  brightest  between  four  and  six,  the  time  during  which 


278  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

Donna  Angelica  was  most  likely  to  come ;  at  that  time,  in  the 
heart  of  the  man  as  well  as  in  the  grate,  there  was  a  mighty 
furnace,  a  temperature  high  enough  to  melt  anything,  courage 
or  metal.  Any  moment  she  might  come ;  perhaps  even  now 
she  was  on  the  stairs,  was  trembling  and  hesitating  on  the 
landing.  He  closed  his  eyes  at  the  very  idea,  at  the  fierce, 
violent  shock  it  gave  him.  Every  day  between  four  and  six 
his  nervous  system  underwent  a  double  strain  of  excitement, 
and  during  those  two  hours  the  flames  from  the  logs  would 
lick  the  walls  of  the  fireplace. 

Then  came  the  twilight.  Hope  and  desire  declined  within 
the  bosom  of  the  lover,  who  was  sunk  in  lethargy ;  the  fire 
declined  in  the  grate,  the  light  failed,  the  embers  blackened, 
and  the  gray  ashes  of  night  descended  upon  the  earth,  upon 
love,  upon  the  fire.  At  half-past  seven  each  evening  he  would 
depart,  in  the  chill  of  the  evening  and  of  the  street,  in  the 
chill  of  his  own  disappointment  He  would  go  away  pale  and 
stooping,  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  his  head  down  on 
his  chest,  like  a  wretched  victim  to  fever,  whose  system  is 
pervaded  with  the  disease,  like  a  gambler  who  has  lost  his 
last  game. 

And,  like  the  gambler  who  every  day  is  bowed  down  under 
his  chagrin,  but  who  every  night  finds  fresh  strength  to  hope 
and  play  more  energetically  and  daringly,  so  did  the  dis- 
couraged lover  in  the  evening,  when  he  saw  Donna  Angelica, 
renew  his  faith  in  love.  He  then  saw  her  only  among  other 
people,  and  could  scarcely  get  a  word  with  her,  but  her  eyes 
said  to  him,  exhorting  him  to  patience,  to  fortitude : 

'  Wait  for  me ;  wait  for  me  still !    I  am  coming  1' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  279 

The  next  day,  in  spite  of  the  voice  of  doubt  in  his  soul,  in 
spite  of  all  past  disappointments,  he  would  once  more  hie  to 
the  little  apartment  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  and  shut  himself 
up  there.  It  was  folly  to  expect  her  before  two  o'clock,  but, 
in  his  impatience,  he  came  earlier  every  day,  going  at  noon  into 
the  little  sitting-room,  where  the  bright  April  sun  was  shining, 
and  leaving  later  than  ever  in  the  evening — at  eight.  At 
times,  sitting  by  the  waning  fire,  he  would  be  overtaken  by 
drowsiness,  as  fever  patients  often  are;  he  would  doze  and 
dream,  waking  up  with  a  start,  thinking  he  heard  a  bell  ring. 
But  it  was  nothing ;  Donna  Angelica  did  not  come.  And 
connected  with  this  waiting  was  something  vastly  exasperating  : 
before  he  was  thus  obliged  to  wait  for  Donna  Angelica,  silent 
and  alone,  before  he  had  any  notion  of  an  apartment,  he  was  at 
liberty  to  go  out,  upon  the  chance  of  finding  her  at  a  lecture, 
at  a  reception,  at  the  Parliament,  out  walking — could  even  find 
an  excuse  to  go  to  her  house  for  a  moment,  could,  failing 
anything  better,  talk  about  her  for  a  minute  with  Don  Silvio. 
But  now  it  was  different.  While  she  went  about,  perhaps  to  the 
Villa  Borghese,  perhaps  to  a  friend's  for  a  visit,  perhaps  to  a 
Parliamentary  sitting ;  while  she  was  shedding  the  light  of  her 
presence  on  women,  fools,  and  callous  people ;  while  any  silly 
fop  could  see  her,  make  his  bows  to  her,  talk  with  her — he, 
who  loved  her,  who  wanted  her,  who  lived  for  her  alone,  was 
condemned  to  inactivity,  to  impotence,  alone,  all  alone  between 
four  walls,  tormented  by  these  two  thoughts  : 

*  Where  is  she  ?    Will  she  come  ?' 

At  first,  before  he  had  any  notion  of  an  apartment,  he  still 
was  one  of  the  human    fraternity.     He  went  about  among 


28o  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

people,  under  the  sway,  it  is  true,  of  a  single  idea,  but  at  least 
showing  all  evidence  of  life.  His  colleagues  met  him,  spoke 
to  him,  discussed  with  him;  he  listened  mechanically  and 
answered  like  a  musician  who  plays  by  ear;  he  pretended 
interest  in  his  former  passion.  That  was  at  any  rate  a 
semblance  of  living.  But  now,  betwixt  him  and  politics, 
betwixt  him  and  life,  a  great  chasm  existed.  He  would 
appear  at  Montecitorio  for  a  moment  merely,  early  in  the 
morning  from  his  habit  of  going  there  for  letters ;  after  which 
the  apartment  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  swallowed  all  thought 
and  action,  took  entire  possession  of  Sangiorgio's  activity  and 
attention.  At  night,  when  he  set  forth  in  quest  of  Donna 
Angelica,  he  would  come  back  to  life  like  a  somnambulist :  he 
knew  nothing,  had  heard  and  seen  nothing,  had  spoken  with 
no  one,  had  read  no  newspaper,  had  a  childish  air.  Meanwhile 
such  opinions  as  these  began  to  gain  currency  regarding  him  : 

'  That  Sangiorgio  !  He  seemed  such  a  formidable  fellow  ! 
What  a  pity  !' 

'  Just  like  all  Southerners !  A  blaze  of  straw  that  gives 
neither  light  nor  heat.' 

'  Sangiorgio  has  had  his  day.' 

He  felt  this  wall  of  ice  building  around  him,  this  separation 
from  everybody,  this  departure  from  public  life.  He  was 
keenly  conscious  of  the  dissent  between  his  spirit  and  politics ; 
he  realized  that  each  day  with  his  new,  absorbing  ideal 
removed  him  thousands  of  miles  from  his  old  ideals.  All  of 
this  he  plainly  saw. 

He  was  not  blind — oh  no !  not  blind,  but  waking,  and 
wanting  to  sacrifice  himself.     He  was  not  a  victim  uttering 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  281 

words  of  despair,  not  a  rebel  reviling  a  tyrant,  but  a  happy, 
contented  martyr,  blissfully  watching  his  best  blood  flow  from 
his  veins.  And  the  more  his  love  carried  him  away,  the 
greater  did  his  enthusiasm  grow,  the  greater  his  sacrifice,  the 
greater  his  wish  for  sacrifice.  Thus  a  sort  of  sombre,  painful 
sense  of  pleasure  would  overcome  him  when,  on  sunny 
mornings,  he  left  the  streets,  so  full  of  people  and  business 
and  the  movement  of  life,  to  shut  himself  up  in  a  little  room 
and  wait.  Like  a  fanatical  worshipper  of  Buddha,  he  went  up 
and  down  the  whole  scale  of  annihilation,  even  to  the  utter 
abstraction  of  suffering,  even  to  a  Nirvana  that  was  all  pain. 
*  *  ■x-  *  * 

It  was  the  first  morning  of  the  month  of  May — a  fair,  sunny, 
fragrant  morning,  on  which  the  bells  of  the  Trinita  dei  Monti 
were  chiming  merrily.  Sangiorgio  had  just  arrived  at  his 
sanctuary  laden  with  roses,  but  his  face  was  pale  and  thin ; 
the  moist  freshness  of  the  flowers,  their  healthy,  handsome 
colour,  contrasted  with  the  bearer,  who  was  mournful  and 
sickly  as  an  October  evening  laden  with  noxious  vapours. 
He  was  arranging  the  roses  with  the  childish  look  of  pain  that 
inspires  compassion,  the  more  so  because  sincerely  and  un- 
complaining. A  light  touch  of  the  bell  gave  him  a  nervous 
thrill,  made  him  blush,  sent  tears  to  his  eyes.  The  roses  fell 
on  the  carpet. 

'  It  is  I,'  whispered  Angelica  Vargas,  as  she  walked  in.  She 
did  not  look  about,  but  hastened  into  the  parlour,  sat  down  in 
an  armchair,  and  repeated,  '  It  is  I.' 

He  stood  by  her,  gazing  at  her  with  his  tearful  eyes,  not 
venturing  a  word,  not  even  finding  courage  to  thank  her. 


282  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

She,  sweet  lady,  had  kept  her  promise ;  she  could  not  lie. 
With  fragrant  May,  the  poetic  month  of  roses,  she  had  come 
— the  divine  one.  Surely  she  was  the  Madonna  to  whom 
roses  are  offered.  Without  saying  a  word,  upon  an  abrupt 
impulse,  he  went  through  the  house  collecting  all  the  roses, 
whether  on  the  ground  or  in  the  vases,  and  very  gently,  without 
remark,  poured  them  into  her  lap,  until  her  dress,  which  was 
of  a  light  gray  material,  was  covered  with  them. 

*  I  have  delayed  coming  very  long,'  she  murmured,  bending 
her  head  under  the  stream  of  flowers, '  but  I  could  not  help  it' 

And  she  made  a  vague  gesture  of  female  helplessness. 
With  glance  of  eye  and  sign  of  hand  he  begged  her  to  desist ; 
her  actions  needed  no  justification  in  his  sight.  And  so 
profound  was  the  consolation  of  her  presence  in  the  house, 
so  complete  his  heart's  felicity,  that  he  was  loath  to  disturb  it 
by  any  painful  thoughts,  any  suggestion  of  reproach.  The 
sweet  lady,  dressed  in  a  delicate  shade  of  gray,  with  an  airy 
white  feather  in  her  hat,  with  a  transparent,  white  veil  over 
her  eyes,  which  made  her  face  look  more  youthful  than  ever, 
sat  composedly  in  her  chair,  her  knees  covered  with  roses,  one 
hand  gloved  in  gray  lying  hidden  among  the  roses  in  her  lap, 
while  the  other  ungloved  hand  hung  out  of  her  sleeve  with 
open  fingers,  as  though  she  had  dropped  something.  He  sat 
down  beside  her,  gently  raised  her  inert  hand,  carried  it  to 
his  lips,  breathed  a  kiss  upon  it.  She  appeared  not  to 
notice  it 

'  It  is  quite  pretty  here,'  she  tranquilly  observed,  after  a 
lengthy  pause,  as  if  visiting  a  female  friend  in  a  new  house. 
*  Yes,  it  is  quite  pretty.' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  283 

'  I  thought  I  had  heard  you  say  you  liked  the  Piazza  di 
Spagna,'  he  answered. 

'  It  is  the  part  of  the  town  I  like  best.  You  have  made  a 
good  choice.  I  have  never  been  able  to  find  an  apartment 
here.  Old  Rome,  where  I  live,  is  so  very,  very  dismal ;  that 
is  why  I  go  out  so  much.  Whenever  I  do,  no  matter  what 
hurry  I  am  in,  I  always  pass  through  the  Piazza  di  Spagna.' 

'Come  and  stay  in  this  room,'  he  said  smilingly,  as  if  in 
jest. 

'  I  would  come  if  I  could,'  she  replied  innocently,  *  but  I 
cannot.  I  must  live  down  there,  in  the  shade.  How  sunny 
it  is  here !  And  you  have  flowers  for  sale  in  the  doorways ;  I 
saw  some  as  I  came  in  here.  The  houses  seem  to  be  full  of 
them.  I  should  think  that  all  the  homes  in  this  square  must 
be  happy.  So  much  sunlight,  so  much  spring,  so  much  loveli- 
ness !     You  are  happy  here,  are  you  not,  my  friend  ?' 

*  Yes,'  he  said,  with  deep  meaning. 

'  May  God  bless  you,*  she  murmured,  as  though  she  were 
praying.  Then  she  buried  her  face  for  several  minutes  in  a 
rose. 

'  And  then,'  she  resumed,  '  by  way  of  contrast  to  all  the 
brightness,  to  the  white  palaces,  and  the  fine  art  shops,  how 
strange  is  that  great,  severe,  gray  edifice,  with  the  inscription 
"  Propaganda  Fide."  The  spread  of  the  faith  !  Do  you  not 
think  those  words  have  a  grand  and  mysterious  sound,  that 
they  must  go  to  all  the  corners  of  the  earth  ?  I  hope  you  are 
a  believer,  my  friend  ?' 

•  If  you  believe,  Angelica,  I  believe  also.' 

'  It  is  so  vulgar  to  be  an  atheist !     Religion  is  so  good  and 


284  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

beautiful ;  it  is  worth  more  than  most  things  the  world 
cares  for.  Have  you  ever  been  in  any  of  the  churches  in 
Rome  ?' 

'  I  have  looked  into  the  basilicas  from  motives  of  artistic 
curiosity.' 

'  Oh  yes,  those  are  great  empty  churches  that  serve  no 
purpose.  You  must  see  the  little  Roman  chapels,  that  are 
meant  to  pray  in.  There  is  one  up  there,  at  the  Trinita, 
where  the  young  monks  sing  behind  a  railing  on  Sundays. 
What  divine  music  that  is  !  The  monks  are  out  of  sight,  and 
one  would  say  they  were  souls  chanting  their  sorrows  and  joys. 
Let  us  go  and  hear  them  together  some  day.  Would  you 
like  to  ?' 

'  If  you  wish  it,  I  will  go.' 

'  I  should  like  you  to  think  as  I  do,  my  friend.  I  should 
like  you  to  feel  what  I  feel.     Perhaps  you  can  guess  at  it.* 

'I  am  so  fond  of  you — I  shall  guess,'  he  said,  with  the 
stifled  voice  in  which  he  always  spoke  when  alluding  to  his 
love. 

•Sh!  You  promised  to  say  nothing  about  that!'  she 
murmured,  blushing  like  a  little  girl. 

'  Sometimes  it  is  too  much  for  me.  Let  me  tell  you  again, 
Angelica,  you  who  are  sweetness  itself.  I  am  so  fond  of  you, 
so  fond  of  you  that  it  is  killing  me  !  I  am  all  alone,  I  have  no 
one  in  the  whole  world,  I  love  no  one  else,  can  love  no  one 
else ;  I  am  very  fond  of  you,  Angelica. ' 

And,  observing  that  he  was  flushed  with  emotion,  she  said 
nothing  more,  but  very  lightly  passed  her  hand  over  his  face, 
as  though  it  had  been  the  wing  of  a  bird  or  a  leaf  stirred  by 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  285 

the  breeze.  He  stopped,  liked  a  shamefaced  boy,  brightening 
up  a  little,  put  out  of  countenance  a  little,  feeling  his  face 
refreshed  by  the  caress. 

She  smiled  with  a  tinge  of  playful  malice  before  asking  him 
the  following  question : 

'  Is  it  true  that  you  were  in  love  with  Elena  Fiammanti  ?' 

'  No  ;  I  never  was.' 

*  Then  she  was  in  love  with  you  ?' 

*  I  do  not  think  she  was.' 
'  You  never  lie,  do  you  ?' 

*  No ;  never.' 

*  I  think  she  loved  you,  nevertheless.  She  seems  to  have  a 
rather  light,  fickle  nature,  but  no  doubt  she  has  a  good, 
affectionate  heart.  I  hardly  ever  see  her ;  she  prefers  men's 
society  to  women's.  Have  you  really  never  been  fond  of 
her?' 

*  I  never  have  been  fond  of  anyone  but  you,  Angelica.' 

*  Let  us  not  speak  of  love.  You  promised  me.  If  I  mention 
it  again  do  not  answer.  Let  me  go  on  talking  without  inter- 
ruption. I  feel  the  need  of  thinking  aloud  in  the  presence  of 
one  who  understands  me,  sympathizes  with  me,  has  some 
affection  for  me.  Sympathy,  that  is  all !  You  will  give  me 
sympathy,  will  you  not,  my  friend  i^ 

'  Angelica,  Angelica,  do  not  talk  like  that !' 

•Because,  you  see,  I  am  like  a  child  sometimes;  I  forget 
that  I  am  a  woman,  a  responsible  person.  I  become  timid 
again,  and  superstitious,  and  fearsome,  full  of  juvenile  extrava- 
gances, unaccountable  caprices.  Outwardly  to  society  I  seem 
calm — that  is  my  duty ;  but  at  times,  when  I  am  upset,  when 


286  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

I  am  in  a  melancholy  mood  which  has  no  explanation,  or 
when  I  am  suddenly  gay  without  reason,  then  I  want  someone 
to  sympathize  with  me.  Do  you  sympathize  with  me,  my 
friend?' 

And,  as  if  praying  to  him,  she  joined  her  hands,  turning  a 
pair  of  beseeching  eyes  upon  him.  He  bent  for  a  moment  over 
her  gentle  white  forehead,  and  kissed  her  there  so  lightly  that 
it  seemed  a  mere  breath,  and  with  such  tender  kindness,  with 
affection  so  pure,  that  she  was  deeply  moved,  and  began  to 
shed  silent  tears. 

*  Do  not  weep,  Angelica,'  he  soon  said  in  a  changed  voice ; 
'  do  not  weep.* 

*  Yes,  let  me — let  me !  I  want  to ;  at  home  I  never  can. 
Now — now  I  will  stop  ;  you  shall  see — it  will  be  over  directly.' 

He  did  not  interrupt  her,  since  it  would  have  been  like  taking 
a  comfort  away  from  the  poor  soul.  But  the  tears  which 
flowed  over  her  cheek  caused  him  a  deep  pang ;  they  were 
terribly  painful  and  terribly  seductive  to  him ;  they  acted  upon 
him  with  the  irresistible  voluptuousness  of  agony.  While  she 
was  talking  quietly  and  cheerfully,  as  though  she  were  in  her 
own  drawing-room,  or  visiting  a  friend's,  and  not  shut  up  sur- 
reptitiously in  a  house  with  a  lover,  where  no  disturbing  spirit 
would  ever  come,  he  was  able  to  control  his  masculine  feelings 
enough  not  to  ask  anything  of  her,  not  to  speak  to  her  of  love. 
But  when,  after  telling  him  of  her  incurably  broken  heart,  of 
her  lost  illusions,  of  the  dreams  of  her  youth,  dead  and  gone 
for  ever,  when  she  wept  and  wept  over  their  grave,  when  he 
knew  her  sobbing  softly  and  steadily,  like  a  suffering  child — 
then  it  was  all  he  could  do  to  resist  the  temptation  of  clasping 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  287 

her  in  his  arms,  of  holding  her  close  to  him  for  ever,  to  their 
last  hour. 

Sangiorgio  bent  his  head,  so  as  not  to  see  the  face  furrowed 
by  tears,  the  bosom  swelling  and  fluttering  like  a  bird's.  But, 
worn  out  at  last,  she  gradually  ceased,  retaining  the  woe- 
begone look  of  one  who  has  been  weeping,  and  the  aroma 
of  tears.  She  silently  examined  the  lace  on  her  soaked  hand- 
kerchief. 

'  Your  pardon,  my  friend,'  she  finally  said,  as  if  she  just  then 
remembered  he  was  there. 

'  Do  not  speak  of  it ;  am  I  not  your  friend  ?' 

*  Ah  me,  I  fear  I  am  a  dull  friend !'  she  said  with  a  faint 
smile.  '  I  certainly  shall  not  bring  much  joy  into  your  life. 
It  would  be  better  to  lose  me  than  to  keep  me,  I  assure  you.* 

'  I  like  you  as  you  are ;  I  like  you  because  you  are  as  you 
are  !'  he  declared  passionately. 

She  remained  silent  for  an  instant  as  her  eyes  rested  on  a 
ray  of  light  which  penetrated  the  yellow  lace  curtain,  played 
upon  the  carpet,  and  lit  up  the  heap  of  red  cushions  all  ready 
for  a  tired  lady.  A  sudden  thought  crossed  her  mind,  and  she 
rose  abruptly. 

'  I  must  go.' 

*  No,  no,  no !'  he  pleaded  in  despair,  as  if  such  a  thing  was 
quite  out  of  the  question. 

*  I  must  go,'  she  repeated  seriously. 

*  Why  ?'  he  asked  in  childish  manner. 

'Because '   she  answered,   smiling   at    his    ingenuous 

question. 

'Stay  a  little  longer;  you  have  only  just  come.' 


288  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

'  It  is  one  o'clock.     It  is  late.     I  must  go !' 
'  A  few  minutes,  a  few  minutes  more,'  he  urged,  in  the 
boyishness  of  his  love. 

*  I  cannot  possibly ;  I  have  already  stayed  too  long.' 
'  What  difference  can  a  few  more  minutes  make  ?' 

'  No  difference,  but  what  is  the  use  ?  A  minute  more,  or 
five  minutes  more — what  can  it  matter  to  you  ? 

*  Do  not  torture  me,  Angelica.  Be  kind ;  grant  me  another 
five  minutes.* 

'  I  will  stay,  but  you  are  very  exacting,*  quoth  she,  shaking 
her  head  like  a  mother  who  is  unwillingly  surrendering  a 
sweetmeat  to  her  clamouring  little  boy. 

And  then  they  remained  standing  opposite  each  other  at 
the  door,  she  as  though  annoyed  and  wishing  to  be  gone,  he 
as  though  embarrassed  and  sorry  for  having  kept  her  back. 
Of  a  sudden  Sangiorgio's  face  exhibited  an  anxious  doubt. 

*  And  shall  you  really  never  come  back  ?' 

*  I  will  come  back.' 

*  Oh  yes,  you  say  so,  but  you  will  not  come  !'  he  exclaimed  in 
deep  agitation,  and  totally  carried  away  by  this  idea.  '  Why 
deceive  me  ?  You  are  going  away,  and  I  shall  never  see  you 
here  again.     I  have  a  presentiment  of  it ;  I  feel  it  in  me !' 

*  I  shall  come  back — I  shall  come  back,'  she  assured  him, 
with  that  gentle,  firm  voice  that  had  the  power  of  assuring  him. 
And  to  reassure  him  she  allowed  the  freshness  of  a  smile  to 
dwell  on  him  for  a  moment,  the  serenity  of  her  glance. 

This  calmed  and  appeased  him. 

'  Promise  me,  then,  that  you  will  come  back.  Will  you 
promise?' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  289 

'  I  promise  you.' 

*  For  the  sake  of  the  thing  or  person  interesting  you  most  in 
the  whole  world  ?' 

*  For  the  sake  of  the  thing  or  person  interesting  me  most  in 
the  whole  world,  I  promise  you.' 

*  When  will  you  come  back  ?' 

*  That  I  cannot  telL  My  time  is  not  my  own.  I  will  come 
back  when  I  can.' 

'  You  can  come  back  soon  if  you  want  to,  Angelica.  Any- 
how, can  you  not  mention  an  hour  or  a  day  ?' 

'  What  for  ?  Do  you  find  waiting  for  me  tiresome  ?  Is  this 
not  your  home  ?' 

'  Yes,  but  at  least  name  a  day ' 

'  Oh,  then,  you  do  not  like  waiting  for  me  !  You  have  more 
amusing  things  to  do.' 

'  No,  Angelica,  nothing.' 

*  Well,  then?' 

'  Well — if  you  only  knew,  Angelica,  how  sad  I  feel  when  I 
do  not  know  the  day  or  the  hour  that  I  am  to  see  you  again ! 
This  vague  expectation  is  torture — it  is  a  nightmare !  You 
would  be  sorry  for  me,  Angelica,  if  you  knew  how  it  makes  my 
heart  and  my  brain  suffer.  Even  if  you  intend  to  delude  me, 
or  you  cannot  come,  still,  name  a  day.' 

'  To-day  is  Sunday,'  she  reflected.  *  To-morrow  I  cannot 
come,  nor  the  day  after,  nor  Wednesday ;  all  my  time  is  taken 
up  those  days.  Thursday — yes,  you  may  count  on  seeing  me 
on  Thursday ' 

•Not  before?' 

'How  do  I  know?    Possibly  for  a  minute  one  of  those 

19 


290  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

three  days.  But  I  will  come  on  Thursday  for  certain.  Good- 
bye, my  friend !' 

'  Oh,  stay  !'  he  cried,  holding  her  back  by  the  hand. 

*  How  childish  you  are  !  Good-bye  1'  And  she  flitted  down 
the  stairs,  as  though  she  were  making  a  fortunate  escape. 

Immediately  he  felt  as  if  life  were  ebbing  from  him ;  he  felt 
as  if  all  his  blood  was  flowing  away  out  of  a  deadly  wound.  He 
did  not  look  back  into  the  room  where  they  had  been  together, 
nor  at  the  place  where  they  had  sat  side  by  side.  He  took  his 
hat  and  darted  off"  to  find  Angelica,  in  the  wild  hope  of  finding 
her.  The  square,  so  full  of  sunlight  in  the  middle  of  the  day, 
dazzled  him,  and  instinctively  he  made  for  the  Via  Condotti. 
But  nowhere  did  he  descry  the  pretty  gray  dress  and  tne  white 
veil.  Halfway  up  the  street  he  retraced  his  steps,  and  hastened 
in  the  direction  of  the  Via  Propaganda  Fide — a  name  fresh 
in  his  memory — wandered  through  the  Via  Sant'  x\ndrea  delle 
Fratte,  the  Via  Mercede,  and  the  Via  San  Silvestro,  like  one 
befogged,  like  someone  eagerly  looking  for  a  thing  he  is  sure 
of  having  lost. 

But  the  dear  shape  seemed  to  have  melted  into  the  sunshine, 
for,  after  searching  all  the  streets  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
Piazza  di  Spagna  in  hot  haste,  spurred  by  an  invincible  im- 
pulse, Sangiorgio  had  not  succeeded  in  finding  her.  He  then 
walked  for  another  hour  by  the  Via  Babuino,  the  Via  Due 
Macelli,  and  the  Via  Sistina,  to  the  Villa  Medici  and  the 
Pincio,  prey  to  a  nervous  tension  which  prevented  him  from 
feeling  fatigued,  giving  rein  to  the  mad  idea  that  Donna 
Angelica  must  have  intended  to  take  a  walk  at  this  time  of  the 
day.   He  arrived  in  the  Piazza  del  Popolo,  suddenly  composed, 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  291 

wiih  tired  legs,  with  his  brain  all  confused.  It  must  be  late, 
he  thought,  very  late;  he  seemed  to  have  spent  a  long, 
eventful  day ;  he  felt  the  moral  and  physical  fatigue  incident 
to  the  great  days  of  a  lifetime.  He  took  out  his  watch.  It 
was  barely  half-past  one ;  the  rest  of  the  day  was  a  blank  to 
him.  Mechanically  and  very,  very  slowly,  in  obedience  to 
former  habits,  he  wended  his  way  down  the  Corso  to  the 
Chamber,  with  a  disgusted  expression,  ignoring  the  handsome 
middle-class  Roman  women  going  home  from  Mass,  recog- 
nising no  one  who  bowed  to  him  in  the  glad,  bright  beams  of 
that  May  Sunday.  He  went  to  the  Parliament,  but  did  not 
know  whether  on  a  Sunday  there  would  be  a  sitting.  Never- 
theless, he  went  to  take  refuge  there,  not  knowing  what  to  do 
with  body  or  soul.  The  people  he  met  all  appeared  new  and 
foreign  to  him,  and  as  he  looked  at  them,  surprised  at  so  many 
strange  faces,  they,  too,  seemed  to  look  at  him  in  surprise  and 
askance.  At  this  hour  the  coming  and  going  of  deputies 
about  Montecitorio  was  incessant ;  friends  went  up  and  down 
in  couples,  and  also  little  groups  of  politicians,  who  had 
lunched  together  at  the  Colonne,  the  Parliamente,  the  Fagiano, 
or  the  Sorelle  Venete.  Sangiorgio  acknowledged  a  bow  now 
and  then  as  if  he  was  in  a  dream.  He  saw  them  debating, 
heard  them  arguing ;  passing  close  by  them,  he  caught  snatches 
of  their  discussions,  but  it  all  conveyed  nothing  to  him. 
Luckily,  there  was  a  sitting  that  day. 

He  took  his  usual  seat,  and  from  the  force  of  physical  habit 
put  the  papers  in  front  of  him  in  order,  while  hearing  the  small 
but  penetrating  voice  of  Sangarzia  read  out  the  schedule  of 
proceedings.      What  was    it    all    about  ?      That  voice  was 

19 — 2 


292  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

bewildering  to  his  mind.  Those  words  he  seemed  to  have 
heard  before — but  when  ?  It  cost  him  a  stupendous  effort  to 
pull  himself  together.  He  was  like  a  man  who,  after  experi- 
encing a  growing  nervous  exhilaration  for  a  certain  period, 
afterwards  yields  to  utter  lassitude,  his  strength  being  totally 
exhausted. 

He  sat  with  his  head  between  his  hands,  trying  to  grasp  the 
sound  and  sense  of  all  that  was  being  said.  But  he  was  too 
weak.  A  torpor  was  creeping  over  him ;  he  was  afraid  he 
might  fall  asleep !  He  went  out  upon  the  corridors  to 
smoke  a  cigar.  The  Honourable  di  Carimate,  the  agreeable 
Lombard  gentleman,  chairman  of  an  agrarian  committee, 
accosted  him : 

*  Well,  Sangiorgio,  what  about  that  report  ?' 

'  The  report  ?    Yes,  when  was  I  to  have  given  it  to  you  ?* 

'Why,  a  week  ago.      We  are  very  much  behindhand.      I" 
tried  to  find  you  everywhere.     Did  you  not  receive  my  last 
two  notes  ?' 

'  No,  neither,'  he  answered,  lying. 

'And  to  think  that  yesterday  we  were  attacked!  I  was 
obliged  to  answer,  as  chairman.     Have  you  been  ill  ?' 

« Very  ill.' 

*  You  look  it.  I  hope  you  will  get  better,  Sangiorgio.  Have 
you  caught  a  fever  by  any  chance  ?' 

•I  think  so.' 

•  I  hope  you  will  get  better.  And  when  do  you  say  we  may 
be  ready  ?' 

•  I  can  hardly  tell.  In  a  week,  perhaps.  I  will  let  you 
know.' 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  293 

He  returned  to  the  hall,  after  shaking  off  the  painful 
sensation  of  the  lie.  The  Honourable  Bonora  was  still 
speaking.  An  obscure,  tedious  newcomer,  who  would  make  a 
speech  on  every  question,  he  was  now  boring  the  house.  The 
Speaker,  from  his  chair,  made  a  friendly  little  sign  to  Sangiorgio, 
who  went  down  and  shook  hands  with  him. 

'  111  ?'  asked  the  Romagnan  of  the  honest  brown  eyes. 

'  Slightly.' 

*  Why  do  you  not  apply  for  leave  of  absence  ?* 

'  I  shall.     I  want  it.' 

And  he  went  back  to  his  seat  exhausted.  A  strong  sense  of 
irritation  began  to  take  root  in  him.  It  was  five  o'clock,  and 
he  seemed  to  have  been  in  the  Chamber  for  a  century.  San 
Demetrio,  the  Abruzzan  deputy,  and  Scalia,  the  Sicilian, 
were  talking  in  undertones  about  a  duel  between  an  editor 
and  a  deputy,  and  asked  his  opinion ;  he  manifested  obvious 
indifference. 

All  these  voices,  high  or  deep,  at  length  sickened  him.  He 
was  hot  all  over ;  he  felt  ill  in  that  atmosphere ;  he  was 
suffering  there,  could  scarcely  breathe.  He  left  hurriedly, 
took  a  cab,  and  drove  straight  to  the  quarters  in  the  Piazza  di 
Spagna.  There  he  threw  himself,  with  outstretched  arms, 
into  a  large  chair  Angelica  had  occupied,  rested  his  face 
where  that  dear  head  had  rested,  and  wept  long  and  bitterly. 


CHAPTER  VI 

Angelica  only  kept  her  appointments  with  Sangiorgio  by 
exception.  Sometimes  in  the  evening,  when  handing  him  a 
cup  of  tea,  she  would  hastily  whisper  to  him  : 

'To-morrow,  at  two  o'clock.' 

'  Are  you  sure  to  come  ?'  he  would  ask,  since  he  had  been 
disappointed  several  times. 

*  Quite  sure.' 

Believing  this  promise,  he  lived  upon  it  that  night  and  the 
next  morning.  By  two  o'clock  she  would  not  have  arrived. 
At  first  he  would  think  she  had  been  delayed,  would  take 
patience,  and  look  out  of  the  window  for  her.  Then  he  would 
be  seized  with  uncertainty,  and  finally,  at  dusk,  in  that  sweet 
month  of  May,  he  would  lose  hope  altogether,  and  give  way  to 
despondency.  When  he  saw  her  again,  in  all  her  beauty  and 
serenity  and  freshness,  as  frank  as  ever,  and  amiable  towards 
everybody,  he  was  invaded  with  mingled  bitterness,  tenderness, 
and  regret.  Never,  never  should  she  know  the  extent  of  his 
love  and  sufferings.  She  excused  herself  not  at  all,  or  else 
only  vaguely,  by  some  brief  phrase  interjected  fugitively  into 
an  account  she  was  giving  someone  else  of  the  day's  tiresome 
doings.  It  was  always  a  concert,  a  lecture,  a  charity  bazaar, 
some  visits  to  a  hospital,  a  public  function,  or  else  some  other 
trivial  or  stupid  affair,  which  had  interfered.   Thus  Sangiorgio's 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  295 

despair  increased,  for  he  saw  how  little  of  that  soul  belonged 
to  him.  But  the  whole  evening  she  would  lavish  on  him  the 
sweetness  of  her  veiled  glances,  would  hold  him  captive  under 
the  fascinating  brightness  of  her  smile,  would  ask  him  for  a 
book,  her  fan,  or  her  handkerchief  in  such  dulcet  tones,  and, 
in  fact,  impressing  him  to  such  an  extent  as  the  type  of 
beatific  femininity,  that  by  the  end  of  the  evening  he  would  be 
conquered  once  more.  In  his  weakness,  he  would  mentally 
ask  her  pardon  for  having  harboured  resentment. 

From  time  to  time,  however,  she  remembered  the  poor 
recluse  who  was  waiting  for  her,  shut  up  indoors  in  the  ripe 
springtide,  so  delightful  to  enjoy  in  the  streets  of  Rome  and 
among  the  villas  and  on  the  flowery  hills.  She  would  arrive 
in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  unexpectedly,  at  an  unforeseen  hour, 
at  ten  in  the  morning  or  at  seven  in  the  evening,  just  as  he 
was  about  to  go  away  disconsolate.  Once  she  came  during 
one  of  the  long  May  rain-storms  and  the  first  flashes  of 
summer  lightning.  These  unexpected  visits  always  gave 
Sangiorgio  a  violent  moral  shock;  he  could  not  accustom 
himself  to  them,  occurring  as  they  did  when  he  had  lost  hope 
of  receiving  any  more,  when  he  was  plunged  in  the  depths  of 
disappointment,  or  into  the  half-besotted  state  pecuHar  to 
persons  given  to  a  single  idea.  Never  did  satiety  come  to 
him,  since  each  new  appearance  of  Donna  Angelica  was  a 
special  grace  to  him,  a  jewel  from  her  spiritual  treasure-house. 
And  when  she  came  in  the  first  consoling  moment  the  wearing, 
terrible  pain  of  hopeless  waiting  was  miraculously  healed ;  the 
afflicted,  sick,  suffering  man  was  resurrected  like  Lazarus 
from  the  tomb* 


296  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

In  the  presence  of  the  beloved  reality  he  forgot  everything 
he  had  endured  in  his  visions  of  her,  and  when  she  was  with 
him  he  could  do  nothing  but  worship  her,  kneel  before  her 
humbly,  kiss  her  hands,  thanking  her  for  remembering  him. 
And  Donna  Angelica  maintained  the  place  to  which 
Sangiorgio's  love  had  exalted  her,  which  she  was  able  to 
keep  by  force  of  her  temperament  and  character,  which  was  a 
high,  solitary  niche,  unattainable,  unassailable,  a  tabernacle  of 
virtue  and  purity,  whence  she  might  deign  to  incline  her  eyes 
to  him  who  loved  her,  might  smile  at  him,  stretch  out  a  hand 
to  him,  allow  the  hem  of  her  garment  to  be  kissed,  and  this 
without  any  of  her  condescensions  in  the  least  dulling  her 
aureole,  without  her  divinity  ever  becoming  humanized  or 
femininized.  Whenever  she  came  to  see  him,  it  was  an  act  of 
grace;  her  hands  showered  roses;  she  brought  felicity  with 
her.  Her  part  was  to  do  nothing  but  exist,  appear,  smile  and 
vanish.     And  this  she  did. 

Sangiorgio's  individuality  was  losing  itself  more  and  more. 
Never  did  Angelica  concern  herself  about  his  thoughts,  feelings, 
or  tortures  during  her  absence ;  never  did  she  question  him 
about  his  work,  his  ambitions,  his  aims  ;  she  seemed  to  have 
no  curiosity  to  really  know  him.  She  called  him  Sangiorgio, 
simply  because  she  thought  his  Christian  name,  Francesco,  too 
commonplace  and  ugly.  And  he  felt  this  commonplaceness 
and  this  ugliness,  and  regretted  both,  but  did  not  dare  to  ask 
her  to  call  him  by  his  first  name. 

Sitting  beside  him,  looking  at  the  large,  black  velvet  cross 
on  the  yellow,  brocaded  cloth — a  combination  of  vivid  and 
sombre  passional  colours — she  vouchsafed  to  talk  to  him  at 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  297 

great  length,  observing  with  what  ecstasy  he  listened.  Angelica 
yielded  to  the  everlasting  need  that  women  have  of  communi- 
cating their  thoughts,  on  all  matters,  great  or  small,  to  the 
want  of  a  vent  that  drives  so  many  of  them  to  the  steps  of  the 
confessional,  that  gives  rise  to  so  many  sham  friendships  with 
other  women,  that  also  makes  them  seek  a  confidant  in  a  man, 
without  a  care  for  the  effect  of  their  confidences. 

How  much  she  had  to  say — she,  who  was  condemned  to 
perpetual  silence — of  Don  Silvio's  political  pursuits,  his  age,  his 
sardonic  disposition  !  How  much  she  had  to  say — she,  whose 
husband's  position  forbade  her  to  enter  upon  friendship  with 
any  woman  in  her  social  circle  !  And  here  she  had  found  a 
confidant,  the  best  of  confidants,  ever  happy  to  listen  to  her, 
ever  ready  to  agree  with  her,  ever  prone  to  sympathize  with 
her,  ever  prone  to  admire  her,  hearing  from  his  tongue  the 
echo  in  epigram  of  the  plain  meaning  of  her  speech  and  thought. 
He  interpreted  them  best,  in  the  way  that  women  like,  being  a 
man  who  wanted  to  know  everything,  whose  curiosity  was 
insatiable,  who  understood  everything,  was  indulgent  towards 
all  small  faults,  magnified  and  glorified  the  smallest  virtues, 
turned  a  word  into  a  poem,  a  sentence  into  a  sentiment,  and  a 
kindness  into  a  heroic  deed — this  man  in  love. 

Sitting  beside  him,  in  the  quiet  of  the  room,  the  flower-scented 
room,  among  the  soft-hued  materials  and  the  deep  rich  folds 
suggestive  of  intimacy,  surrounded  by  all  the  queerly  con- 
trasting exotic  articles,  her  eyes  fixed  on  a  glittering  gold  spot 
in  some  fabric,  she  would  talk  of  herself,  of  the  state  of  her 
heart,  of  the  inexpressible  sorrows  no  one  should  ever  know  of, 
but  which  he  alone  knew,  of  her  small  spiritual  enjoyments, 


398  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

brief  pleasures  only  confessed  to  one's  self  or  one's  closest 
friend. 

Angelica's  disillusionment  after  marriage  had  not  been 
abrupt,  but  gradual,  continuous,  increasing  day  by  day, 
through  a  number  of  small  griefs,  until  indifference  and 
isolation  had  come.  Her  legitimate  hopes  of  married  happi- 
ness, of  beautiful  dreams,  of  a  pure,  tranquil  love,  and  of  faith 
in  a  loyal  soul,  had  wretchedly  gone  shipwreck,  and  shattered 
against  Don  Silvio's  great,  burning,  selfish  passion — politics. 
It  had  not  been  the  catastrophe  of  an  instant,  the  huge, 
prostrating  catastrophe,  from  which,  however,  recovery  is 
possible  through  the  natural  workings  of  a  strong  soul ;  it 
was  the  daily  drop,  drop  that  hollows  out,  that  ploughs 
furrows,  that  at  last  vanquishes  even  the  hardness  and  coldness 
of  stones. 

Donna  Angelica  had  much  to  say  in  telling  the  tale  of  her 
moral  widowhood,  and  she  musically  varied  her  infinite 
lamentations  in  every  key  of  sadness.  She  made  no  open 
accusations,  not  she ;  not  a  harsh  or  reviling  word  crossed  her 
lips.  But  everything  was  mournful,  innocent  complaint,  was 
the  story  of  how  she  had  been  gradually  and  cruelly  crushed, 
narrated  with  a  delicate  choice  of  words,  but  with  an  irremedi- 
able sense  of  woe. 

Sangiorgio  listened  to  it,  and  seeing  her  so  wrapt  up  in  her 
tale,  so  affected  by  what  had  been  the  slow  stamping  out  of 
her  heart,  that  he  had  no  courage  even  to  interrupt  her,  nor 
did  he  ever  venture  to  tell  her  how  he  would  have  worshipped 
her,  had  fate  blessed  him  with  the  supreme  favour  of  giving  her 
to  him  as  his  wife. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  299 

With  avidity  he  received,  from  the  adored  hps,  the  minutest 
details  of  those  small,  daily  tribulations,  shuddering  at  each 
one  of  them,  feeling  what  she  had  felt.  He  saturated  himself 
in  her  story,  which  by  degrees  became  his  own,  in  which  his 
personality  ever  more  surely  dissolved ;  when  she,  agitated  by 
her  own  recital,  and  observing  the  paleness  and  perturbation 
of  her  listener,  gave  vent  to  tears  or  forcibly  restrained  them, 
he,  by  reflection,  experienced  the  same  emotion. 

In  one  of  her  sentiments  he  went  further  than  she  did. 
Donna  Angelica  did  not  hate  Don  Silvio,  not  knowing  how 
to  hate,  but  he  was  shut  out  of  her  heart  for  evermore ;  she 
could  not  love  him  because  he  had  neglected  to  love  her; 
could  not  respect  him  because  politics  force  a  man  into  too 
much  bargaining  and  baseness.  But  she  did  not  hate  him — 
oh  no !  he  was  merely  indifferent  to  her.  And  she  uttered 
her  little  assertions  of  indifference  with  such  frigid  precision, 
with  such  icy  simplicity,  that  Sangiorgio  shivered  with  the 
thought  that  these  killing  words  might  some  day  apply  to  him. 
But  he  went  further  than  Angelica.  He  was  a  man,  and  he 
hated  Don  Silvio  with  a  true  lover's  hatred.  He  hated  him 
cordially,  in  every  way,  morally  and  materially,  as  an  enemy 
and  a  wicked  man,  as  a  fortunate  rival  and  a  despicable 
creature  ;  he  hated  him  to  the  point  of  wishing  him  defeated, 
disgraced,  defamed,  dishonoured,  dead.  He  had  robbed 
him  of  Donna  Angelica,  barrened  her  soul,  rendered  her 
incapable  of  further  illusions,  made  her  unhappy  and 
suspicious  of  happiness;  he  had  never  loved  her  and  had 
destroyed  her  faculty  of  loving ;  he — yes,  he — still  had  Angelica 
in  his  power.     And  Sangiorgio  also  hated  Don  Silvio— that 


300  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

husband — with  the  fury,  the  jealousy,  and  the  injustice  of  a 
lover  who  loves  truly. 

But  this  was  not  all  that  Donna  Angelica  related  in  her 
visits  to  the  Piazza  di  Spagna.  With  the  juvenile  frankness  of 
women  who  never  do  wrong,  with  the  unobtrusive  but  dangerous 
sincerity  which  so  closely  resembles  decoying  and  coquetry, 
she  indulged  in  the  circumstantial  description  of  the  feelings, 
habits,  rules,  tastes,  which  are  the  foundation  of  woman's  life. 

Sangiorgio  now  knew  in  detail  the  whole  of  Donna  Angelica's 
daily  life.  At  any  time,  closing  his  eyes,  he  could  imagine 
what  she  was  doing,  so  often  had  she  repeated  her  favourite 
pursuits  to  him. 

Although  she  went  to  bed  late,  she  got  up  early  in  the 
morning,  from  an  early  Northern  habit  she  had  never  been  able 
to  shake  off.  No  one  was  allowed  in  her  room,  not  even  her 
maid.  Angelica  insisted  that  no  one  should  intrude  into 
the  sacred  nook  of  her  nocturnal  thoughts  and  dreams  and 
slumbers.  Did  he,  Sangiorgio,  not  think  a  bedroom  was  a 
sanctuary,  to  be  free  from  profane  intrusion  ?  Yes,  he  thought 
so,  she  was  quite  right,  he  would  reply,  greatly  agitated,  with  a 
fire  burning  his  entrails.  Donna  Angelica  only  permitted  her 
maid  to  do  her  hair  and  dress  her  when  she  went  to  balls ;  she 
detested  the  officious  hands  of  servants  about  her  body,  their 
vulgar  babble,  the  contact  of  their  fingers  with  her  hair,  all  of 
which  shocked  and  disgusted  her.  Long  ago,  as  a  young 
girl,  finding  the  length  of  her  tresses  annoying  when  she 
combed  her  hair,  she  had  had  it  cut  short,  and  had  begun  to 
wear  the  dark  coiled  headdress  of  an  adult.  One  day,  when 
she  spoke  of  this  in  whispers,  as  in  a  dream,  Sangiorgio 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  301 

humbly  asked  her  to  let  her  hair  down,  as  he  had  never  seen 
how  long  it  was.  She  simply  said  no ;  that  she  would  never 
have  time  to  arrange  it  again ;  that  it  took  an  hour.  He 
repeated  the  request  in  vain.  She  promised  to  do  it  some 
other  day,  when  she  would  have  more  time  with  him. 

After  her  toilet,  Donna  Angelica  spent  a  couple  of  hours  in 
her  little  sitting-room  next  to  her  bedroom,  reading,  writing, 
dreaming,  always  alone. 

She  answered  the  notes  of  her  friends  up  there,  and  the 
people  who  sent  her  applications,  and  those  who  wanted 
recommendations.  She  wrote  very  fast,  always  using  white 
paper,  without  crest,  motto,  or  monogram ;  the  like  of  these, 
to  which  other  women  were  devoted,  she  considered  cheap, 
vulgar. 

One  day  he  asked  her  to  write  something  on  paper,  a  line 
merely,  since  he  had  never  had  a  written  word  from  her ;  and 
she  would  perhaps  have  done  it,  but  Sangiorgio  searched  the 
apartment  in  vain,  unable  to  lay  his  hands  on  either  an  inkstand, 
a  pen,  or  a  sheet  of  paper.  In  this  house,  intended  for  love, 
there  were  naturally  lacking  the  things  intended  for  study,  for 
business,  for  everything  that  was  not  love. 

She  remarked,  with  a  smile,  that  he  evidently  never  wrote. 
No,  he  never  wrote,  he  said — he  only  loved;  and  Angelica, 
still  smiling,  signed  to  him  to  stop.  She  would  not  listen  to  any 
of  this,  would  not  come  back  if  he  continued. 

And  the  delightful,  fascinating  confidences  would  go  on. 

At  half-past  eleven  she  usually  met  Don  Silvio  at  lunch. 
She  was  always  hungry  in  the  morning,  like  all  young  and 
healthy  people.     She  would  like  to  be  chatting  and  laughing 


302  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

with  someone  as  young  and  lively  as  herself  at  that  cheerful 
hour  of  the  day,  but  Don  Silvio  was  at  that  hour  always 
bursting  with  anger  or  the  morning's  annoyances,  was  never 
hungry,  because  the  disease  of  politics  had  ruined  his  liver  and 
stomach ;  and  all  through  the  meal  he  read  newspapers  and 
letters,  and  wrote  at  the  table,  just  as  he  did  in  his  drawing- 
room  at  the  Braschi  mansion,  in  the  Chamber,  and  everywhere. 
Ah  1  she  preferred  to  the  company  of  that  lean,  old,  perti- 
nacious devourer  of  newspapers,  letters,  and  telegrams,  who  let 
his  cutlet  get  cold  on  his  plate,  who  forgot  to  eat  his  fruit,  in 
his  daily  fit  of  bile — to  this  she  preferred  being  alone,  with  the 
sun  casting  a  long  ray  on  the  table,  with  the  music  of  a  piano 
near  by,  with  the  buzz  of  the  noonday  flies  when  the  weather 
was  warm.  And,  seized  with  one  of  the  strange  caprices  that 
pure  women  have,  she  proposed  to  Sangiorgio  to  go  into  the 
country  quite  early  some  morning,  to  one  of  the  little  inns  with 
terraces  arboured  by  creeping  vines,  and  to  have  a  meal 
together,  as  truant  schoolboys  might. 

'  But  why  do  you  torture  me  ?  why  do  you  tell  me  this  ?'  he 
asked,  gently  reproachful. 

•  Do  I  torture  you  7 

'  You  would  never  go.' 

'Yes,  I  shall — yes,  I  shall,'  she  murmured  uncertainly,  still 
amused  at  her  juvenile  idea. 

After  lunch  Donna  Angelica  began  her  duties  as  a  Minister's 
wife,  as  a  woman  with  public  obligations.  She  also  went 
shopping  then.  She  liked  plain  dresses,  and  black  was  her 
favourite  colour.  And  Sangiorgio — yes,  she  knew  he,  too, 
cared  most  for  black ;  he  had  seen  her  in  black  the  first  time, 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  303 

at  the  station,  the  day  he  arrived  in  Rome.  Then  came  all 
the  feminine  features  of  politics — calls  to  be  made  and  returned, 
patronesses'  committees,  meetings  of  charitable  associations, 
benefit  concerts,  diplomatic  receptions,  opening  ceremonies, 
lectures,  prize  distributions — all  those  long,  tedious  affairs,  for 
no  object,  for  no  sensible  reason,  a  brilliant  gloss  over  card- 
board, all  for  the  honour  of  His  Excellency,  nothing  for  its  own 
sake,  nothing  spiritual.  She  loathed  all  that.  Ah  !  how  happy 
she  might  have  been  as  the  wife  of  a  quiet,  thoughtful  man, 
who  was  not  eaten  with  the  fever  of  politics,  who  regarded 
political  power  as  an  ignominious  farce,  who  estimated 
correctly  what  it  was  to  be  Minister — namely,  to  be  the  accused 
instead  of  the  judge,  to  sit  on  the  prisoner's  bench. 

*  Your  wife,  Sangiorgio,'  she  added. 

'  Oh,  Angelica  !'  he  said,  with  a  peculiar  intonation. 

But  she  did  not  understand.  She  had  revealed  her  whole 
life  to  him,  had  told  him  everything.  Sangiorgio  knew  her, 
but  she  did  not  know  Sangiorgio. 

*  *  *  *  ♦ 

A  change  occurred  in  their  relations.  Angelica  had  become 
accustomed  to  these  visits,  and  came  often,  showing  the  easiest 
manner,  as  if  she  expected  to  meet  friends,  exhibiting  neither 
a  trace  of  sentiment  nor  the  slightest  diflSdence.  Sangiorgio 
sometimes  scanned  her  face  in  doubt :  it  was  serene,  unclouded 
by  fear  or  shame. 

When  she  arrived  she  sat  down  as  if  she  were  in  any  other 
house,  with  not  a  quiver  in  her  voice,  not  a  tremor  of  her 
hand;  nothing  to  suggest  a  woman  doing  a  surreptitious 
thing,  nothing  to  indicate  consciousness  of  deceit.     There 


I 


304  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

now  seemed  to  be  no  difficulty  about  coming ;  it  was  such  a 
natural,  simple  thing.  She  would  often  come  between  two 
calls ;  she  would  leave  the  Chamber,  and,  on  her  way  to  the 
Russian  Ambassadress,  would  see  him  for  a  moment — ^just  a 
moment — before  going  on  to  the  Embassy.  She  would  come 
between  two  errands ;  after  leaving  her  dressmaker's,  who 
lived  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  to  go  to  Janetti's  to  buy  some 
article,  she  would  come  and  ask  Sangiorgio's  advice  about  a 
garment,  or  about  a  little  Renaissance  shrine. 

One  day  she  cruelly  said,  as  she  entered : 

*  I  happened  to  be  passing  by,  and  as  I  thought  you  might 
possibly  be  at  home,  I  came  up.' 

Another  time,  when  he  was  looking  out  into  the  street 
through  the  window,  which  he  did  not  dare  to  open  for  fear  of 
being  recognised,  and  was  almost  suffocated  with  the  heat  of 
the  room,  he  saw  her  walking  in  the  square  with  her  rhythmical 
step,  glancing  at  the  shops  and  the  people.  He  gave  a  start, 
and  wanted  to  call  out  to  her  to  make  her  come  up,  but  he 
lacked  the  courage,  and  his  voice  failed  him.  She  went  on 
and  on  without  looking  back.  At  a  certain  moment  some- 
thing seemed  to  come  into  her  mind.  She  turned  round, 
threw  up  a  glance  at  that  first-story  window,  saw  that  eager 
pale  face  behind  it,  smiled,  went  back  again  and  up  to  his 
apartment,  as  she  might  have  called  on  a  friend  she  had  seen  on  a 
balcony.  How  cruelly  she  did  this !  And  these  meetings  with  a 
man  who  was  in  love  with  her,  in  a  private  place,  in  a  room  ac- 
cessible to  no  one,  aroused  no  sense  of  guilt  or  betrayal  in  her. 
In  fact,  the  thing  had  become  a  habit.  She  shook  hands  with 
him  as  one  does  with  friends  in  the  street ;  she  let  him  button 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  305 

her  glove  as  if  they  were  at  a  ball ;  she  looked  him  as  straight 
in  the  face,  treated  him  as  she  did  in  her  own  drawing-room  ; 
she  spoke  of  trivial  or  serious  matters  according  to  inclination ; 
she  gave  him  any  letters  to  read  that  might  be  in  her  pocket ; 
she  consulted  him  on  family  affairs ;  she  had  adopted  a  familiar 
friendly  tone,  never  speaking  or  thinking  of  love,  being  in- 
genuously and  aggressively  blunt  and  open. 

Not  so  Sangiorgio.  This  continued  intimacy,  these  secret 
confidences,  these  sequestered  chats,  in  a  warm  room,  with  the 
lady  of  his  heart,  the  hand  he  was  allowed  to  kiss,  the  arm 
that  rested  so  softly  on  his,  the  wavy  locks  on  her  forehead, 
which  she  let  him  fondle — all  this  physical  femininity  excited 
his  blood  and  his  senses,  stirring  up  manhood  and  youth  in 
him  anew. 

He  was  a  man  after  all,  and  when  that  beloved  face  leaned 
very  close  to  his  in  conversation,  when  he  felt  the  odour  of 
that  hair  going  to  his  brain,  when  that  supple  form  fell  back 
in  an  armchair,  shaken  by  a  sob  or  in  a  burst  of  merry  laughter, 
when  that  fair  brow  was  bent  in  thought,  at  such  moments  he 
was  on  the  verge  of  clasping  Angelica  in  his  arms,  tenderly, 
passionately,  in  a  lingering  grasp. 

The  divine  image  had  become  too  kind,  too  familiar,  and 
too  friendly  for  him  not  to  feel  her  sex,  with  all  her  charms, 
all  her  seductions;  they  were  together  too  much,  alone  and 
safe,  for  him  always  to  remain  a  calm,  religious  worshipper ; 
his  love  was  too  great  for  him  not  to  aim,  ultimately,  at  the 
entire  possession  of  this  woman. 

In  vain  did  he  try  to  drive  away  temptation  by  recalling  the 
sweet,  pure  beginning,  when  love  floated  on  the  wings  of  the 


306  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

ideal  and  the  abstract ;  however  hard  it  might  once  have  been 
to  relinquish  her,  now  it  was  impossible  to  banish  Angelica 
from  his  blood  and  his  fibres. 

It  was  all  in  vain.  The  absolute,  Buddhistic  five  months' 
concentration  had  brought  with  it  the  concentration  of  his 
mind  upon  a  single  desire.  With  his  simple,  sober,  robust 
nature,  he  in  vain  tried  to  escape  from  this  phase  of  con- 
templation, for  he  was  unable  to  wish  for  anything  else.  He 
went  through  daily  struggles  not  to  let  Angelica  read  the  truth 
in  his  longing  eyes,  not  to  let  her  understand  the  trembling  of 
his  longing  lips,  to  prevent  his  longing  arms  from  snatching 
her  in  their  embrace.  He  was  a  man  after  all,  and  he  fought 
because  of  his  promise,  fought  with  inner  desperation,  with 
now  victory,  now  defeat  imminent.  The  sweet  lady  smiled 
at  him,  put  her  face  near  his,  spoke  to  him  in  whispers,  all 
unwitting,  cruel  and  innocent.  He  choked,  he  shut  his  eyes, 
as  if  it  were  all  over  with  him.  He  had  promised,  promised ! 
But  she — why  did  she  not  understand  ?  She  was  a  woman, 
surely !  Then  why  did  she  play  with  this  peril  ?  He  had 
promised,  but  he  was  a  man ;  endure  the  struggle  he  could  not. 
How  was  it  that  Donna  Angelica  did  not  understand  ?  Had 
she  never  understood?  How  long  was  this  martyrdom  to 
last  ?  No,  the  torture  of  it  was  surpassing  his  strength.  To 
have  her  there  with  him,  beautiful,  young,  beloved — to  be 
alone  with  her  in  that  silent  place — yet  no,  he  could  not  break 
his  promise  which  he  had  given  :  he  must  spare  her  that  cup, 
he  must  give  her  up,  she  must  come  no  more  ! 

One  day  in  June,  while  explaining  a  new  way  of  doing  her  hair, 
she  remembered  her  promise  to  take  it  down  and  let  him  see  it. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  307 

*  No,  no,'  he  murmured. 

'  Why  ?'  she  asked  innocently. 

'  I  could  not  bear  it.' 

'  Not  bear  it  ?' 

He  did  not  answer.  She  took  off  her  hat,  laughing,  snatched 
out  three  hairpins  and  a  tortoiseshell  comb,  and  shook  out 
the  dark  tresses  over  her  shoulders,  still  laughing  like  a  child 
in  fun. 

*  How  lovely !  how  lovely  !'  he  exclaimed  in  a  stifled  voice, 
seizing  some  of  her  locks  and  kissing  them. 

*  May  I  go  into  your  room  to  make  myself  tidy  ?'  she  asked, 
jumping  to  her  feet,  pink  and  fresh  under  this  hood  of  hair. 

She  had  never  been  in  there,  nor  had  ever  evinced  any 
curiosity  to  go.  And  she  did  not  now  wait  for  Sangiorgio's 
sanction,  but  went  in  without  further  ado,  quite  at  home, 
confiding,  unsuspecting.  First,  she  was  taken  aback  at  the 
blue  striped  with  silver,  at  once  so  sober  and  so  sensual.  She 
mechanically  passed  the  yellow  comb  into  her  hair,  without 
looking  into  the  Pompadour  mirror.  Sangiorgio,  standing  by 
her,  said  nothing.  Then  her  eyes  fell  for  a  moment  on  the 
blue  velvet  coverlet.  She  saw  the  capital  *  A '  embroidered  on 
it,  saw  that  piece  of  audacity,  and  uttered  a  faint  cry  of  pain. 
She  looked  into  Sangiorgio's  eyes,  and  the  truth  was  plain  to 
her.  Speechless,  she  knotted  her  hair  on  her  neck,  left  the 
room,  put  on  her  hat,  took  her  gloves  and  went  away,  without 
looking  back. 


20- 


CHAPTER  VII 

Sangiorgio  was  idling  under  the  porch  at  Montecitorio,  while 
inside  the  ushers  were  nimbly  extinguishing  the  gas  in  the 
library,  reading  and  writing  rooms,  and  offices.  He  was  gazing 
at  the  starry  summer  sky  and  the  square,  being  unable  to  make 
up  his  mind  to  go  home.  A  tall,  lean  man,  appearing  from 
the  Via  Orfanelli,  came  up  to  him,  cigar  in  mouth,  with 
shoulders  slightly  bent. 

'  Good-evening,  Sangiorgio,'  he  said.     '  Are  you  at  liberty  ?' 

'  Good-evening,  Don  Silvio.     I  am.' 

*  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.' 

'  Shall  we  go  to  your  office,  then  ?* 

*  No,  no,  not  there.' 
'  To  your  house  ?' 

'  No,  not  to  my  house,  either.  I  prefer  to  go  to  yours, 
Sangiorgio,'  dryly  answered  the  Minister,  raising  his  head. 

'  As  you  please,'  answered  the  deputy  in  the  same  tone, 
having  understood  what  was  coming.     'Come.' 

They  went  across  the  Piazza  Colonna  in  silence,  smoking 
their  cigars,  looking  at  their  shadows  against  the  ground  in  the 
moonlit  night.  At  the  corner  of  the  Via  Cacciabove  San- 
giorgio made  motion  to  turn  off. 

'  That  way  ?'  asked  Vargas  doubtfully. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  309 

'  Certainly.' 

'  Do  you  not  live  at  62,  Piazza  di  Spagna,  Sangiorgio  ?' 

*  I  admit  it,'  rejoined  Sangiorgio  frigidly. 

They  continued  along  the  Corso,  both  maintaining  silence, 
meeting  people  who  were  coming  out  of  the  summer  theatres, 
the  Quirino,  the  Corea,  the  Alhambra,  and  who,  recognising 
the  Minister's  tall  figure  in  spite  of  the  darkness,  pointed  him 
out  to  one  another,  and  turned  round  to  look  at  him,  taking 
Sangiorgio  for  a  secretary  or  clerk.  The  two  walked  very 
slowly.  At  the  Via  Condotti  no  more  people  were  in  sight ; 
there  was  no  one  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna.  The  front-door 
of  No.  62  was  closed,  but  Sangiorgio  had  a  key,  though  he 
had  never  been  there  at  night.  He  lit  a  match  on  the  dark 
staircase,  Don  Silvio  following,  still  smoking.  In  the  ante- 
room the  oil  lamp,  which  was  always  burning,  threw  sombre 
shadows  on  the  carved,  wooden  bridal  coffer,  on  the  high- 
backed  chairs.  In  the  sitting-room,  where  no  lights  had  ever 
been  used,  Sangiorgio  turned  about  in  embarrassment,  match 
in  hand,  at  a  loss  how  to  obtain  a  light.  At  last  he  found 
a  slender,  bronze,  Pompeian  candlestick,  with  three  pink 
candles,  which  he  lit.  He  sat  down  opposite  Don  Silvio, 
who  had  already  taken  a  seat.  The  Minister  had  thrown  his 
cigar  away  on  the  landing,  and  left  his  hat  in  the  anteroom ; 
his  head  was  lowered  on  his  chest,  and  his  eyeglass  hanging 
down  on  his  coat.    Don  Silvio  was  in  one  of  his  reflective  moods. 

'  I  am  waiting,  Don  Silvio,'  said  Sangiorgio,  with  difficulty 
restraining  himself  from  speaking  impatiently. 

'  I  was  thinking,  Sangiorgio,'  quietly  began  the  Minister, 
'what  a  very  strong  desire  you  must  have  to  kill  me.' 


3IO  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

*  Very  strong,' 

*  To-day,  no  doubt,  it  is  irresistible.' 

*  Irresistible.' 

'You  are  wrong,  Sangiorgio,'  Don  Silvio  went  on,  very 
gently.  •  Why  should  you  wish  to  kill  me  ?  I  am  old,  quite 
old;  what  you  do  not  do,  death  will  soon  do  in  its  natural 
course.' 

*  Don  Silvio  !'  cried  the  other,  suddenly  prostrated. 

*  It  is  true ;  I  am  seventy-two  years  old,  but  I  have  lived 
the  lives  of  three  men.  I  am,  in  reality,  more  exhausted  and 
much  weaker  than  anyone  knows  of.  Some  day  I  shall 
collapse  in  a  single  moment.  You  might  be  my  son,  San- 
giorgio. You  would  surely  not  kill  your  father  for  the  sake  of 
the  inheritance.' 

*  Don  Silvio,  Don  Silvio,  do  not  say  such  things  !' 

*  Yes,  let  me  speak.  We  will  not  fight  about  this,  however 
strong  my  right  to  do  so,  and  however  great  your  desire. 
Besides,  it  would  be  ridiculous.  I,  so  near  the  grave, 
assuming  the  heat  and  passion  of  youth ;  you,  so  young, 
confessing  you  could  not  wait  We  must  not  make  ourselves 
ridiculous.  I  understand  such  affairs,  when  they  are  a  question 
of  love  and  youth,  as  being  tragical,  not  comical.  Better  dis- 
honour than  a  farce,  Sangiorgio.* 

'  True,  quite  true.* 

'And  then  there  is  Angelica,'  added  her  aged  husband, 
pronouncing  the  name  with  infinite  tenderness. 

A  prolonged  silence  occurred  in  the  fittle  temple  where  the 
absent  divinity  still  invisibly  reigned. 

'  Angelica  is  good ;  she  must  not  suffer.     When  she  threw 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  311 

herself  into  my  arms  to-day,  trembling  with  terror,  beseeching 
me  to  save  her — do  not  be  jealous,  Sangiorgioj  she  is  a 
daughter  to  me — although  I  knew  her  secret,  I  let  her 
speak,  because  her  tears,  her  sobs,  her  despair,  were  the 
proof  of  her  virtue :  they  showed  her  conscience  rebelling 
against  evil.' 

'  You  knew  her  whole  secret  ?' 

'  Yes,  from  the  very  first.  She  did  not  exactly  remember 
whether  she  came  here  for  the  first  time  on  the  second  or  the 
third  of  May  ;  but  I  knew  very  well  it  was  on  a  Sunday,  the 
first  of  May.  She  confessed  to  having  been  here  about  fifteen 
times,  but  I  knew  better — that  she  had  come  eighteen  times. 
I  am  Minister  of  Home  Affairs.  But  I  do  not  reproach  her, 
and  I  am  not  reproaching  you ;  you  are  right  to  love  each 
other.' 

Sangiorgio  humbly  raised  his  head  to  look  the  grief-smitten 
old  husband  in  the  eyes. 

'  Of  course,'  he  resumed,  *  Angelica  being  handsome  and 
young  and  clever,  she  required  some  young  person  like  herself, 
entirely  devoted  to  her,  who  would  appreciate  all  her  good, 
lovely  qualities,  who  would  live  the  life  of  the  spirit  and  the 
heart  together  with  her.  Instead,  she  has  a  withered,  dis- 
believing, ruined  old  man,  who  has  an  old  and  greedy 
passion  to  feed — ambition,  the  exacting,  absorbing,  furious 
passion  of  men  over  forty. 

'  It  is  natural  that  Angelica  should  prefer  you  to  me.  As 
for  you,  who  know  how  to  love,  and  still  want  to,  who  have 
no  ambition,  who  do  not  yet  know  that  fever  of  the  soul  which 
never  can  be  stilled,  who  have  a  heart  full  of  trust  and  an 


3t2  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

imagination  full  of  enthusiasm,  you  prefer  the  sweet  intoxication 
of  love  to  everything  else.  Who  could  possibly  find  fault  with 
you  ?  It  is  you  who  are  the  wiser ;  we  are  the  fools.  We 
deserve  to  be  tricked  and  deceived;  we  are  striving  for  a 
vulgar  sham,  you  for  a  divine  reality  !     I  cannot  blame  you.' 

Sangiorgio  listened,  with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands,  without 
proffering  a  word. 

'  Further  than  that,'  Don  Silvio  went  on,  as  if  soliloquizing, 
'that  great  thing  called  man,  that  power,  that  force,  that 
combination  of  forces,  is  governed  by  a  certain  law  which 
imposes  a  restriction  upon  his  achievements.  Do  this,  and 
nothing  else,  says  this  law,  if  you  do  not  want  to  be  feeble  and 
insufficient  in  both.  One  single,  strong,  intense,  profound 
passion  you  may  entertain ;  one  single,  high,  distant,  unattain- 
able ideal  you  may  cherish ;  and  your  soul  must  be  completely 
devoted  to  this  sole  passion,  from  which  nothing  must  make 
you  swerve,  and  your  soul  must  be  wholly  bent  upon  that  one 
ideal  if  you  want  to  reach  it.  Love,  art,  politics,  science,  these 
great  human  activities,  these  highest  forms  of  passion,  and  the 
ideal,  all  go  their  own  separate  roads ;  and  so  stupendous  are 
they  that  the  miserable  mind  of  a  man  can  scarcely  get  his 
grasp  on  one  of  them.  A  man  cannot  be  a  scientist  and  an 
artist,  nor  a  politician  and  a  lover,  without  failing  in  both  the 
things  he  wants  to  do.  We  must  take  our  choice ;  the  great 
human  interests  of  mind  and  heart  are  selfish,  and  demand 
heavy  sacrifices.' 

'  What  is  Donna  Angelica's  wish  ?'  asked  Sangiorgio  briefly, 
rousing  himself  from  the  long  spell  of  meditation  in  which  he 
had  been  immersed. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  313 

'  That  you  leave  Rome,  Sangiorgio,'  answered  Don  Silvio. 
'  I  shall  leave.     For  how  long  ?' 
'  As  long  as  possible.' 

*  I  shall  hand  in  my  resignation.  May  I  see  her  once  more  ? 
I  have  not  the  shadow  of  an  evil  thought  in  making  this  request 
now.' 

'  She  wishes  not  to  see  you.' 

'  Very  well     May  I  at  least  write  to  her  ?' 

'  She  begs  that  you  will  spare  her.  You  will  understand  her 
reserve.' 

'  I  understand.  Now,  tell  me,  Don  Silvio,  in  this  bitterest 
hour  of  my  life,  tell  me  before  God,  is  it  you  who  are  com- 
pelling her  to  do  all  this,  or  is  she  doing  it  of  her  own  free 
will  ?' 

'  I  swear  to  you,  my  son,'  said  the  old  man  gently,  '  that  it 
is  all  by  her  own  free  will,  without  any  compulsion  from  me. 
You  may  see  her  if  you  like ;  I  shall  oflFer  no  opposition.  But 
it  will  be  better  for  you  not  to  see  her,'  he  added  significantly. 

'  Is  she  suffering?' 

'She  has  suffered.' 

'  What  does  she  say  about  me  ?' 

*  She  counts  upon  your  love.' 

'  Very  well.  Tell  her  I  am  going  away  never  to  return. 
Good-bye,  Don  Silvio.' 

'  Good-bye,  Sangiorgio.' 

And  they  took  leave  of  one  another  at  the  street  door,  under 
the  sky  of  night. 

'Another  word,  Don  Silvio.  You  knew  I  loved  Donna 
Angelica,  and  that  she  came  to  see  me.     Had  you  no  fears  ?' 


314  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

*  I  know  Donna  Angelica,'  answered  Don  Silvio,  with  an 
accent  of  profound  conviction,  and  went  away. 

Francesco  Sangiorgio  understood.  Like  Don  Silvio,  he  now 
also  saw  what  Donna  Angelica  was — the  woman  who  knew  not 
how  to  love. 

***** 

He  stole  to  the  Speaker's  rooms  while  the  House  was  sitting, 
since  he  did  not  wish  to  be  seen.  From  there  he  wrote  a  note, 
in  which  he  asked  to  resign  for  reasons  of  health— a  curt  note, 
without  any  other  particulars  whatever.  Upon  handing  the 
letter  to  the  usher,  his  nerves  underwent  a  violent  shock  ;  he 
seemed  to  be  suffocated  by  a  rush  of  blood.  After  seeing  the 
man  disappear  through  the  door,  he  fell  back  into  the  yellow  satin 
armchair,  aged  and  weak,  as  if  he  were  coming  out  of  a  ten 
years*  sickness.  He  waited  and  waited,  not  daring  to  stir,  not 
daring  to  go  into  the  Chamber,  whence  that  day  he  was  volun- 
tarily banishing  himself.  He  was  afraid  to  show  himself,  like 
a  criminal ;  was  afraid  to  give  way  to  his  feelings ;  was  afraid 
to  throw  himself  on  the  ground  and  weep  over  everything  that 
was  dying  in  him  that  day. 

The  usher  came  back  with  a  note  from  the  Speaker.  The 
Chamber,  as  was  customary,  granted  him,  on  the  request  of 
the  Honourable  Melillo,  a  three  months'  leave  of  absence. 
Did  they  not  understand,  then,  that  he  wanted  to  go  ?  Was 
the  agony  to  begin  over  again  ?  He  was  obliged  to  write  the 
Speaker  another  note ;  positively,  he  was  ill,  and  could  not  act 
as  deputy  any  more.  Then  he  walked  up  and  down  in  the 
Speaker's  sitting-room,  like  a  caged  lion ;  and  each  time  he 
was  near  the  bedroom  he  became  seized  with  a  sense  of  envy. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  315 

In  there,  on  a  bed  to  which  he  had  been  carried  after  taking 
a  sudden  fit  during  a  speech  he  was  making  in  the  Chamber, 
a  young  and  bold  athlete  of  finance  had  breathed  his  last.  He 
had  known  the  supreme  blessing  of  being  able  to  die  like  a 
soldier  on  the  battlefield,  and  Sangiorgio  envied  him  his  death. 
The  usher  came  back.  The  House  accepted  the  resignation, 
in  view  of  the  urgency  of  the  case,  the  Speaker  conveying 
besides  a  short  message  of  regret,  with  wishes  for  his  recovery. 
That  was  all,  and  it  was  the  end  of  all.  Sangiorgio  mechani- 
cally felt  for  his  medal,  his  pride,  his  amulet,  and  between  his 
fingers  it  seemed  eroded,  thinned,  as  if  it  had  been  through 
fire.  And  slowly  he  went  thence,  resisting  his  strong  desire  to 
look  once  more  at  the  lobbies,  the  corridors,  the  waiting- 
rooms,  the  library,  the  refreshment-rooms,  the  offices.  But  he 
went  away  without  seeing  them,  since  he  was  afraid  of  meeting 
too  many  deputies,  to  be  obliged  to  give  too  many  explana- 
tions, and  shake  too  many  hands ;  and  he  knew — yes,  he  knew 
that  before  anyone  who  should  happen  to  be  the  first  to  bid 
him  good-bye  he  would  burst  into  tears,  without  shame,  like 
a  boy  whose  father  has  shut  the  door  of  his  house  against 
him.  Better  had  he  leave  as  though  he  cared  not,  like  an 
unfaithful  servant,  who  goes  unthanked  and  without  being 
bidden  farewell ;  who  wants  to  say  no  thanks,  and  offers  no 
farewells. 

Suddenly,  in  the  Montecitorio  Square,  he  felt  a  great  void 
within  and  all  about  him.  He  seemed  to  have  nothing  more 
to  do,  to  have  nowhere  else  to  go  to,  to  be  excluded  from 
seeing  anyone ;  all  things,  people,  and  events  became  dis- 
coloured all  at  once.     He  wanted  neither  to  walk,  eat,  talk, 


3i6  THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME 

nor  think ;  it  all  seemed  useless — all.  Instinctively  he  made 
for  the  Via  Angelo  Custode,  to  his  old  lodgings,  where  so 
much  dust  had  accumulated  in  the  summer,  and  where  the 
disgusting  smell  of  bugs  was  mixed  with  other  horrible  smells 
that  came  from  the  courtyard.  There  he  threw  himself  on  the 
bed,  face  downwards,  buried  in  the  cushions,  hands  lifeless,  in 
mortal  inanition.  He  had  made  no  attempt  to  see  Donna 
Angelica  again ;  what  use  would  it  have  been  ?  Would  there 
have  been  any  change  in  her,  or  in  his  love,  if  he  had  seen 
her? 

It  was  all  useless,  all  of  it.  He  owed  a  large  sum  to  an 
upholsterer,  and  another  to  a  bank,  the  natural  penalty  of 
every  honest  but  forbidden  love.  But  what  did  it  matter?  He 
would  pay,  perhaps,  when  he  was  able,  at  some  uncertain 
date;  otherwise,  if  it  meant  ruin — well,  so  much  the  worse. 
Nothing  could  hurt  him  now;  everything  was  useless,  every- 
thing. He  did  not  even  want  to  see  the  apartment  in  the  Piazza 
di  Spagna  again,  all  fragrant  still,  and  warm  with  Angelica's 
late  presence  ;  he  did  not  want  to  kiss  the  place  where  she  had 
sat.  These  memories  must  be  buried  in  the  past ;  the  evidence 
of  the  past  must  perish.  Nor  did  he  desire  to  take  another 
walk  through  Rome,  the  city  of  his  choice,  the  city  of  his 
dreams,  which  he  was  to  quit  in  two  hours. 

He  was  fit  for  nothing  more,  and  all  was  useless — all. 

Now  that  all  was  over,  better  remain  out  of  sight  on  that 
wretched  bed  in  the  furnished  lodgings,  with  the  filth  and  the 
vile  smells,  better  see  and  hear  nothing. 

Surely  this  was  a  sleep-walker,  this  man  who  was  going  to 
and  fro  in   the  waiting-room  at  the  station,  after  taking  a 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  ROME  317 

second-class  ticket  for  an  unheard-of  little  place  in  the 
Basilicata,  since  he  had  not  enough  money  to  buy  a  first-class 
ticket.  He  must  be  walking  in  his  sleep,  this  man,  who  saw 
none  of  the  passengers,  but  stumbled  up  against  them,  while 
waiting  for  the  departure  of  the  Naples  train;  who  paid  no 
attention  either  to  his  traps,  or  to  the  itinerant  newsvendor 
offering  him  papers,  or  to  the  summer  breeze  that  blew  the  gas 
about.  This  was  a  sleep-walker,  surely,  who  was  looking  for  a 
seat  as  he  vacantly  followed  the  voice  of  the  guard. 

Ah,  the  long  dream  !  With  the  first  puffs  of  the  departing 
train  a  severe  shock  at  his  heart  awakens  the  pale  sleep- 
walker. He  moves  to  the  window  of  the  coach  and  sees 
Rome,  black,  towering,  stupendous,  on  the  seven  hills  flooded 
with  light.  And  he  draws  back,  and  falls  upon  the  seat  as  one 
dead,  for  in  very  truth  Rome  has  conquered  him. 


THE    END 


BILLING  AND  SONS,  LTD.,  PRINTERS,  GUILDFORD 


THE  LAND  OF  COCKAYNE 

By  MATILDE  SERAO 

Some  press  ©pinions 


The  Pall  Mall  Gazette. — 'It  is  long  since  we  have' read — and, 
indeed,  re-read — any  book  of  modern  fiction  with  so  absorbing  an 
interest  as  "The  Land  of  Cockayne,"  the  latest  book  by  Matilde 
Serao,  and  surely  as  fine  a  piece  of  work  as  the  genius  of  this  writer 
has  yet  accomplished.  It  is  splendid  !  Powers  of  the  highest  order, 
an  intensity  of  feeling  almost  painful  in  its  acuteness,  a  breathless 
vigour  that  carries  the  reader  off  his  feet  and  away,  like  some  turbu- 
lent mountain  stream — these  are  but  some  of  the  qualities  manifest  in 
this  astounding  epic  of  superstition,  sorrow,  and  shame.' 

The  Spectator. — '  An  elaborate  and  ruthless  study  of  the  gambling 
instincts  as  developed  by  State  lotteries  in  modern  Italy.  The  tragic 
consequences  of  indulgence  in  the  gambling  mania  are  traced  out 
with  a  wealth  of  convincing  detail.  "  The  Land  of  Cockayne  "  is  a 
great  novel,  with  a  most  laudable  purpose,  the  lessons  of  which, 
mutatis  mutandis,  should  not  be  thrown  away  on  English  readers. 
One  can  only  regret  that  the  theme  has  never  been  adequately 
treated  by  an  English  writer  of  equal  genius  to  that  of  Madame 
Serao." 

The  Speaker. — '  Matilde  Serao  has  great  gifts,  perhaps  the 
.greatest :  she  is  simpatica.  To  translate  this  quality  into  an  English 
epithet  baffles  my  vocabulary,  but  it  amounts  to  this :  that  we  like 
Matilde  Serao  in  her  writings,' 

The  Academy. — '  Matilde  Serao  has  the  direct,  impersonal  manner 
that  belongs  only  to  the  efiicient.  In  her  books  are  no  asides,  no 
pauses,  no  extraneous  interpolations.  The  story  moves  in  the  un- 
interrupted fashion  of  life.  Having  set  out  to  deal  with  such  and 
such  a  subject,  Matilde  Serao  does  that,  and  nothing  else,  the  un- 
wavering concentration  of  her  methods  rendering  the  average 
English  novel,  with  its  slipshod  construction  and  frequent  digres- 
sions, like  so  many  'prentice  efforts  by  comparison.' 

The  Daily  Chronicle.— 'This  is  an  absorbing  and,  on  the  whole, 
a  very  persuasive  book.  Cockayne  is  Naples  in  these  pages — Naples 
given  over  to  the  lottery,  crazed,  debauched  and  beggared  by  it.  If 
the  colouring  is  high,  the  outline  is  unmistakably  true.  Matilde 
Serao's  fascinating  book  has,  however,  another  side,  and  those  who 
know  anything  at  all  of  the  city  which  it  describes  will  delight  in  the 
countless  incidental  sketches  of  social  life — high,  middle,  and  low.' 


THE  BALLET  DANCER 

By  MATILDE  SERAO 

Some  ipress  ©pinions 

The  Spectator. — '  These  stories  are  at  once  beautiful  and  terrible. 
"The  Ballet  Dancer  "  is  a  cruel  tragedy,  but  it  is  justified  by  its  power- 
ful truth  and  exquisite  art.  "On  Guard"  gives  us  a  glimpse  of 
convict  life  in  Italy.  .  .  .  The  whole  situation,  and  every  character 
in  the  story,  stand  out  with  a  distinctness  and  vividness  that  is  more 
than  picturesque — it  is  sculpturesque. ' 

The  Bookman. — '  The  effects  in  these  two  stories  are  carefully 

arranged.  No  words  are  wasted.  Scenes  and  circumstances,  and 
atmosphere  and  narrative,  are  contrived  in  an  admirable  harmony  in 
each  of  them.  Yet  we  hardly  pause  to  admire,  for  in  all  Matilde 
Serao's  work  the  strongest  flavour  is  always  that  of  human  sympathy, 
and  we  are  borne  on  its  quick  wave  to  the  end.  In  the  two  tales 
before  us  the  sentiment  is  delicate,  sincere,  and  robust.  Madame 
Serao  has  worked  successfully  on  larger  canvases;  but  we  are  in- 
clined to  think  the  translator  has  shown  us  in  these  two  stories  the 
finest  flowers  of  her  art.' 

The  Pall  Mall  Gsizette. — 'The  appearance  of  a  volume  from 
Madame  Serao's  pen  must  now  be  reckoned  as  one  of  the  treats  of  a 
publishing  season.  Few  living  writers  have  given  us  anything  equal 
to  her  splendid  story  of  the  Neapolitan  lotteries,  ' '  The  Land  of 
Cockayne,"  and  it  is  much  to  say  that  those  who  were  stirred  to 
enthusiasm  by  that  book  will  experience  no  reaction  upon  reading 
the  two  stories  here  bound  together.  It  is  easy  enough  to  say  that 
the  intense  directness  of  Madame  Serao's  work,  or  the  completeness 
of  vision  and  sympathy  with  which  she  sees  her  picture,  is  its  secret; 
but  genius  is  not  too  big  a  word  for  her,  and  genius  has  no  com- 
municable secret.' 

The  Sunday  Special— '  Tense,  passionate,  and  dramatic,  are 
terms  one  can  apply  without  exaggeration  to  "  The  Ballet  Dancer." 

The  Saturday  Review. — 'The  work  of  Madame  Serao,  a  novelist 
with  rare  gifts  of  observation  and  faculties  of  execution,  only  needs 
a  little  more  concentration  on  a  central  motive  to  rank  among 
the  finest  of  its  kind — the  short  novels  of  realism.  She  curiously 
resembles  Prosper  Merimee  in  her  cold,  impersonal  treatment  of  her 
subject,  without  digression  or  comment,  the  drawing  of  clear  out- 
lines of  action ;  the  complete  exposure  of  motive  and  inner  workings 
of  impulse;  the  inevitable  developments  of  given  temperament 
under  given  circumstances.  She  works  with  insight,  with  judgment, 
and  with  sincerity.' 


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